^  * 

K 


it 


J 


HENRY  S. 
PANCOAST 


4-1. 


UNIFORM  WITH  THIS  VOLUME 

Each  $1.50  net,  cloth  ;  $2.50  net,  leather,  Add 
8#  to  the  price  of  each  volume  for  postage. 

THE  POETIC  NEW-WORLD 
Compiled  by  Miss  L.  H.  HUMPHREY.    A  collec- 
tion of  poems  describing  the  scenery  and  historic 
associations  of  America. 

THE  POETIC   OLD-WORLD 
Compiled   by    Miss   L.    H.    HUMPHREY.     Covers 
Europe,  including  Spain,  Belgium  and  the  British 
Isles. 

THE  GARLAND   OF  CHILDHOOD 
A   little  book  for  all  lovers  of  children.     Com- 
piled by  PERCY  WITHERS. 

THE  OPEN   ROAD 

A  little  book  for  wayfarers.     Compiled  by  E.  V. 
LUCAS. 

THE  FRIENDLY  TOWN 

A  little  book  for  the  urbane.    Compiled  by  E.  V. 
LUCAS. 

LETTERS   THAT    LIVE 

Selected  and  edited  by  LAURA  E.  LOCKWOOD  and 
AMY  R.  KELLY. 

HENRY   HOLT   AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


THE  VISTA  OF  ENGLISH 
VERSE 


COMPILED   BY 

HENRY   S.    PANCOAST 


REPRINTED    FROM    "STANDARD    ENGLISH 
POEMS,"    WITH    ADDITIONAL   SELECTIONS 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT   AND  COMPANY 
1911 


COPYRIGHT,  1899, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  &  CO. 


COPYRIGHT,  ign, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


PREFACE 

IN  this  book  the  reader  may  travel  down  the  broad 
highway  of  English  poetry,  from  the  days  of  Spenser 
and  Shakespeare  to  our  own  time.  Pausing  in  these 
early  years  of  a  new  century,  with  the  songs  of  living 
poets  in  the  air,  he  can  look  back — as  through  a  long 
vista — over  the  way  he  has  come. 

There  are  a  few  priceless  things  that  cannot  be  too 
often  seen  or  too  well  known;  the  familiar  makes  its 
peculiar  appeal,  as  well  as  the  novel,  and  if  there  is 
an  exhilaration  in  making  a  new  friend,  there  is  also 
a  gentler  and  perhaps  a  deeper  satisfaction  in  finding 
an  old  one.  Here  the  reader  travels  down  the  middle 
of  the  highway,  resisting  many  temptations  to  turn 
aside  and  explore  the  less  trodden  ways  that  branch 
off  here  and  there  on  either  hand;  he  passes  many 
a  retreat  where  he  might  profitably  linger,  yet,  keeping 
to  the  main  track,  he  welcomes  much  that  is  endeared 
by  long  association,  and  he  sees,  perhaps  more  clearly, 
the  course  and  changing  character  of  that  great 
spiritual  thoroughfare,  spanning  both  time  and  space, 
which  is  built  to  music  and  of  music  "  and  therefore 
built  forever." 

The  present  collection  is  not  entirely  new;  it  is  an 
old  one  in  a  new  form.  Some  years  ago  I  prepared  a 
book  of  Standard  English  Poems  for  students  of  Eng- 
lish poetry.  I  have  often  been  told  since  then  that 
this  collection,  although  intended  primarily  for  school 

iii 

2056243 


iv  PREFACE 

and  college  use,  would  be  acceptable  to  lovers  of  poetry 
at  large.  I  have  accordingly  tried  to  obliterate  the 
trail  of  the  schoolmaster,  and  to  adapt  it  to  the  taste 
and  needs  of  the  general  reader.  The  notes  have  been 
omitted,  the  book  has  been  put  into  a  more  attractive 
and  artistic  form,  and  the  Victorian  period  has  been 
enlarged  by  the  introduction  of  a  number  of  poems  by 
recent  and  living  writers. 

It  is  a  pleasant  duty  to  add  that  the  book  in  its 
new  form  owes  its  existence  to  Mr.  Roland  Holt,  who 
has  followed  its  compilation  with  unfailing  interest, 
and  at  whose  suggestion  it  was  undertaken. 

ISLESFORD,  MAINE, 
July  2nd,  1911. 


CONTENTS 


BALLADS. 

PAGE 

Chevy   Chase 1 

Sir   Patrick   Spens 11 

Waly,   Waly,   love   be   bonny 13 

The   Twa   Sisters  o'   Binnorie 14 

Bonnie  George  Campbell 18 

Helen  of  Kirconnell 19 


SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN. 

The    Faerie   Queene    ( Selections ).... Edmund  Spenser  21 

The    Courtier "  "  53 

Sonnet   XL..  "  "  54 


ELIZABETHAN  SONGS  AND  LYKICS. 

Apelles'    Song John   Lyly  56 

Content    Robert   Greene  56 

The   Passionate   Shepherd   to  his  Love, 

Christopher  Marlowe  57 

0   Sweet  Content Thomas   Dekker  58 

Good    Morrow Thomas    Hey  wood.  59 

To  Lesbia    Thomas  Campion  60 

The  Armour  of  Innocence "  60 

Fortunati    Nimium "  61 

Song  of  the  Priest  of  Pan John  Fletcher  63 

Song    to    Pan "  "  64 

On  the  Life  of  Man Francis  Beaumont  65 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey    "  65 

The  Character  of  a  Happy  Life.  .  .  .Sir  Henry  Wotton  66 
The  Nymph's  Reply  to  the  Passionate  Shepherd, 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (?)  67 

V 


vi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To  the  Memory  of  Shakspeare Ben  Jonson  68 

Simplex  Munditiis "  70 

The  Triumph  of  Charis "  71 

Song,  To   Cynthia "  72 

Silvia    William  Shakespeare  73 

Under  the  Greenwood  Tree "  73 

O  mistress  mine,  where  are  you 


roaming? 


Take,  oh,  take  those  lips  away.  . 

Hark,  Hark    the  Lark 

Dirge     

A    Sea    Dirge 

Ariel's   Song 


ELIZABETHAN  SONNETS. 


74 
74 
75 
75 
76 
76 


Sonnet   XXXI Sir  Philip  Sidney  11 

Sonnet   XXXIX,    On    Sleep "       "  77 

Sonnet  LI,  To  Delia Samuel  Daniel  78 

Sonnet  LXI Michael  Dray  ton  79 

On    Sleep William    Drummond  79 

Sonnet  XXIX    ("When,    in   dis- 
grace,"   etc.) William  Shakespeare  80 

Sonnet    XXX     ("When    to    the 

sessions,"    etc. ) "  "  80 

Sonnet  XXXIII    ("Full  many  a 

glorious    morning,"    etc.)...       "  "  81 

Sonnet      LX       ("Like      as      the 

waves,"  etc. )....'. "  "  81 

Sonnet  LXXIII  ("That  time  of 

year,"    etc. ) "  "  82 

Sonnet  CXVI   ("Let  me  not  to 

the  marriage,"   etc.) "  "  82 

Sonnet  X,  On  Death John  Donne  83 

Agincourt    Michael    Drayton  84 

SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  SONGS  AXD  SONNETS. 

An    Elegy   upon    the   Death   of   the   Lady 

Markham    j0hn  Donne  88 

A  Valediction   Forbidding  Mourning.  ...        "          "  90 

S°ng    «         «  91 

A  Hymn   to  God  the   Father ;  . .     "          "  93 


Corinna's  Going  A-Maying. 

To  Primroses  Filled  with  Morning  Dew 

To  the  Virgins,  to  make  much  of  Time 

To    Daffodils 

The   Hag. 


CONTENTS  Vll 

PAGE 

Vertue    George  Herbert  93 

The    Pulley "        .     "  94 

The  Elixir "  95 

.The  Collar "             "  96 

The  Retreate Henry  Vaughan  97 

Departed  Friends "  98 

The  Author's  Resolution  in  a  Sonnet ..  George  Wither  99 

A   Vote Abraham  Cowley  101 

The  Grasshopper "  102 

A    Dirge James    Shirley  103 

Disdain   Returned Thomas    Carew  104 

Orsames'    Song Sir   John   Suckling  104 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars . .  Richard  Lovelace  105 

To  Althea  from  Prison "  106 

Argument    to    Hesperides Robert  Herrick  107 

107 
110 
111 
111 
112 

On  a  Girdle Edmund  Waller  113 

Song    '...       "  113 

On  the  Foregoing  Divine  Poems "  114 

L'Allegro John  Milton  115 

II    Penseroso "            "  119 

Song,  Sweet  Echo    (from   Com  us) "            "  124 

Song,  Sabrina  Fair    (from  C'omus) "            "  125 

Lycidas    "             "  126 

Sonnet,    On    his    having    arrived    at    the 

age  of  twenty-three "            "  131 

Sonnet,   On   the  Late   Massacre    in   Pied- 
mont          "            "  132 

Sonnet,  On  His  Blindness "            "  132 

Sonnet,  To   Cyriack   Skinner "            "  133 

The  Garden Andrew  Marvell  134 

DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON. 

Mac-Flecknoe  John  Dryden  137 

Achitophel  (from  Absalom  and  Achito- 

phel) "  143 

A  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day "  145 

Alexander's  Feast;  or,  The  Power  of 

Music  "  147 

Under  Mr.  Milton's  Picture "  153 


Vlii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To  a  Child  of  Quality  Five  Years  Old.. Matthew  Prior  154 

A    Hotter  Answer 155 

The  Spacious   Firmament Joseph  Addison  156 

Fal.lc     XV I II,     The     Painter     who     Pleased 

Nobody  and  Everybody John  Gay  157 

<  )n    a    Lap-dog 159 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock Alexander  Pope  160 

Klegv  to  the  Memory  of  an  Unfortu- 
nate  Lady    184 

Universal   Prayer 187 

Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot   (Selection)         "              "  188 


THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON. 

Spring    (from   The  Seasons) James  Thomson  195 

Summer    (from    The   Seasons) "  198 

Autumn    (from  The  Seasons) "  200 

Winter    (from  The  Seasons) "  202 

Rule    Britannia "  "  206 

Ode   to   Evening William  Collins  207 

The   Passions "  "  209 

Ode   written   in   the   beginning  of   the 

year   1746    "  213 

Dirge   in  Cymbeline "  "  213 

Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  Col- 
lege     Thomas  Gray  214 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard       "  217 

The  Bard "  "  222 

The   Deserted  Village Oliver  Goldsmith  227 

'I  In-   Minstrel's  Roundelay Thomas  Chatterton  240 

The  Balade  of  Charitie "  "  242 

The    Task    (Selections) William  Cowper  245 

On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture 

out  of  Norfolk "  "  257 

On  the  Loss  of  the  "  Royal  George  ". .       "  "  261 

The    Casl-away ' "  "  262 

To  the  Muses . .  William  Blake  264 


To    the    Evening    Star 

Introduction  (from  Songs  of  Innocence) 

The    Lamb 

Night    

To  the  Divine  Image 

On   Another's   Sorrow 

The  Tiger 


265 
265 
266 
267 
268 
269 
270 


CONTENTS  IX 

PAGE 

Ah !  Sunflower William  Blake  271 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night Robert  Burns  272 

To  a  Mouse "  279 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy "  280 

Tarn  o'  Shanter "  282 

Bruce's  Address  to  his  Army  at  Ban- 

nockburn  "  289 

The  Banks  of  Boon "  290 

A  Red.  Red  Rose "  291 

Is  tliere,  for  Honest  Poverty "  291 

O,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast "  293 

Lines  composed  a  few  miles 

above  Tintern  Abbey William  Wordsworth  293 

Expostulation  and  Reply "  298 

The  Tables  Turned "  299 

Three  years  she  grew "  300 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden 

ways  "  302 

Michael:  a  pastoral  poem "  302 

My  heart  leaps  up "  317 

The  Solitary  Reaper 317 

Ode,  Intimations  of  Immortality  "  318 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud.  ...  ",  324 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight.  .  .  "  325 

Ode  to  Duty "  326 

Written  in  London,  September, 

1802  "  328 

London,  1802  "  328 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory.  "  329 
Composed  upon  Westminster 

Bridge,  1802 "  329 

Composed  upon  the  Beach,  near 

Calais,  1802 "  330 

"  The  world  is  too  much  with 

us "  "  330 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient 

Mariner  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  331 

The  Good  Great  Man "  353 

Youth  and  Age "  354 

Work  without  Hope "  355 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim Robert  Southey  356 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  past.  .  .  "  358 

Sonnet  to  Night Joseph  Blanco  White  360 

Harold's  Song  to  Rosabelle  (from 

Lay   of   the   Last    Minstrel) Sir  Walter  Scott     360 


CONTENTS 


Ballad.  Alice  Brand    (from  Lady  of  PAGE 

//,,    Luke] Sir  Walter  Scott      362 

Edmund's  Song   ( from  Rokeby ) "  366 

Song,  A  Weary  Lot  is  Thine    (from 

Rokeby)     "  "         368 

Song,  Allan-a-Dale   (from  Rokeby)  .  .  369 

Song,  The  Cavalier  (from  Rokeby)  .  .  370 

Hunting  Song 372 

Jock  of  Hazeldean 

Madg<«  Wildfire's  Song '  374 

Border  Ballad '•>''> 

County   Guy "  376 

Vc    Mariners  of   England Thomas  Campbell     376 

Hohenlinden    "  378 

Battle  of  the  Baltic "  379 

Song,  "  Men  of  England " "  381 

Song,  To  the  Evening  Star "  382 

As  slow  our  ship Thomas  Moore    383 

The    Harp    that    once    through    Tara's 

Halls   "  "         384 

Stanzas  for  Music George  Gordon  Byron     385 

She   walks   in   beauty "             "  "         386 

Sonnet  on  Chillon  (Introduc- 
tion to  The  Prisoner  of  Chil- 
lon)    "  "  "  387 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage  (Se- 
lections)    "  "  388 

Don    Juan    ( Selections ) "  "        403 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind Percy  Bysshe  Shelley    406 

To   a   Skylark 409 

The    Cloud 413 

Adonais 416 

Time 437 

To  -      - 437 

T<>    Night '           437 

A  Lament '             '  '          439 

To  '  '           439 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes John  Keats     440 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale "         455 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn '  "        458 

To  Autumn '  "        460 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci '  "        461 

On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer  .  .       '  "         463 
Sonnet    ("To    one    who    has    been    long," 

etc.)    "  "        464 


CONTENTS 


XI 


On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket John  Keats  464 

Last  Sonnet .' "  "  465 

To  the  Grasshopper  and 

the  Cricket James  Henry  Leigh  Hunt  465 

Mild  is  the  parting  year,  and 

sweet  Walter  Savage  Landor  466 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptered 

race  '  "  466 

Yes ;  I  write  verses '  "  "  467 

To  Robert  Browning '  468 

Introduction  to  the  Last  Fruit  ' 

off  an  Old  Tree '  468 

A  Petition  to  Time Bryan  Waller  Procter  468 

Song  Hartley  Coleridge  469 

To  Hester Charles  Lamb  470 

The  Death  Bed Thomas  Hood  471 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs "  "  472 

VICTORIAN  VERSE. 

Battle  of  Ivry Thomas  Babington  Macaulay  477 

Locksley   Hall Alfred  Tennyson  481 

Ulysses  '  493 

The  Epic 495 

Morte  d'Arthur 497 

Sir  Galahad 506 

Break,  Break,  Break 509 

Tears,  Idle  Tears  (from  The  Princess)  509 

Bugle  Song   (from  The  Princess)  ....  510 

In  Memoriam    (Selection) 511 

Maud   (Selection) 512 

Crossing  the  Bar 515 

My  Last  Duchess Robert  Browning  516 

Song   (from  Pippa  Passes) 518 

Home  Thoughts,  from  Abroad 518 

The  Guardian-Angel '  519 

Andrea    del    Sarto '  521 

Prospice    "  529 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra "  530 

Epilogue    (from   Asolando) "  538 

A  Musical   Instrument.  .  .Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  539 
Cheerfulness     Taught     by 

Reason   541 

The  Prospect 541 

Work   .  "  "  "  542 


xii  CONTENTS 

Sonnet    I     (from    Sonnets  PAGE 

from  the  Portuguese)  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  542 
Sonnet  VI  (from  Sonnets 

from  the  Portuguese)  543 
Sonnet  XXXV  (from 

Sonnets      from       the 

Portuguese)  543 

Sonnet  XLIII  (from 

Sonnets      from       the 

Portuguese)  544 

Some  murmur  when  their 

sky  is  clear Richard  Chevenix  Trench  544 

The  night  has  a  thousand 

eyes  Francis  William  Bourdillon  545 

A  Poet's  Epitaph Ebenezer  Elliott  545 

Plaint "  "  546 

The  Day  of  the  Lord Charles  Kingsley  547 

The  Sands  of  Dee "  548 

Clear  and  Cool "  549 

Evenen  in  the  Village William  Barnes  550 

The  Song  of  the  Western  Men  Robert  Stephen  Hawker  551 

Rubaiyat  (selections)  Edward  Fitzgerald  552 

The  Private  of  the 

Buffs  Sir  Francis  Hastings  Charles  Doyle  554 

At  the  Church  Gate .  .  .  William  Makepeace  Thackeray  555 

The  End  of  the  Play..  "  556 

The  Toys Coventry  Kersey  Dighton  Patmore  559 

The  Two  Deserts...  "  560 

Keith  of  Ravelston Sydney  Thompson  Dobell  561 

America "  "  563 

Homeward  Bound William  Allingham  564 

Four  Ducks  on  a  Pond "  565 

Heather  "  "  565 

Half- Waking "  "  566 

Juggling  Jerry George  Meredith  567 

Lucifer  in  Starlight "  "  571 

Love  in  the  Valley "  572 

"O  May  I  Join  the  Choir  Invisible "...  George  Eliot  573 

Longing  Alfred  Austin  575 

Now  upon  English  soil "  "  576 

And  wherefore  feels  he  thus? "  576 

To  Marguerite Matthew  Arnold  577 

Absence 578 

Self-Dependence  579 

Dover  Beach "  "  580 


CONTENTS  xiii 

PAGE 

Shakespeare Matthew  Arnold  581 

Worldly   Place 582 

East   London "  582 

Geist's    Grave "              "  583 

Lines    Written    in    Kensington    Gar- 
dens                              "  586 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus Arthur  Hugh  Clough  587 

"  With  Whom  Is  No  Variableness, 

Neither  Shadow  of  Turning "     "                           "  588 

Say  Not,  the  Struggle  Naught  Availeth 589 

The  Stream  of  Life 589 

Give  a  man  a  horse  he  can  ride James  Thomson  590 

O   mellow   moonlight   warm "  591 

The  Inner  Light Frederic  William  Henry  Myers  591 

A  Gentleman  of  the  Old  School.  .Henry  Austin  Dobson  592 

Before    Sedan "  596 

The  Dying  of  Tanneguy  du  Bois      "  597 

Ode Arthur  William  Edgar  O'Shaughnessy  599 

Chorus Algernon    Charles   Swinburne  601 

Chorus    "  603 

The    Garden    of    Proser- 
pine           "  606 

Pastiche    "                "                  "  609 

The  Blessed  Damozel Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  610 


The    Sea-Limits. .  .  . 
Sibylla    Palmifera. . 

Silent  Noon 

Inclusiveness 

A    Superscription . 


615 
616 
616 
617 
617 

Up-hill     Christina  Georgina  Rossetti     618 

Symbols    "  "  619 

O  my  heart's  heart,   and 

you  who  are  to  me . .          .  "  "  620 

Youth   gone,   and   beauty 

gone   if  ever  there . .  "  "  620 

Thou  Who  didst  make  and 
knowest    whereof    we 

are    made "  "  "  621 

An   Apology William  Morris    621 

Prologue "  "         623 

June   "  "          623 

L'Envoi    "  "          624 

Drawing  Near  the  Light "  "          625 

Sonnet  X Eugene  Lee-Hamilton    626 

Sonnet  XXIII..  "  "  626 


xiv  CONTENTS 

PAOF 

The  First  Skylark  of  Spring... William  Watson  627 

Tlir    fiivat     Misgiving. "  629 

Sonnet 630 

To  R    T.  H.  B William  Ernest  Henley  631 

To  H.  B.  M.  W "  631 

Song   ..! "  "  632 

A  Song  of  the  Road Robert  Louis  Stevenson  633 

The    Celestial    Surgeon "         "  634 

The  Counterblast "        "  634 

A  Lad  That  Is  Gone "         "  637 

Requiem    "         "  638 

Hope  the  Horn  blower Henry  John  Newbolt  638 

When    I   Remember "  639 

The  Only  Son "  "  "  640 

A  Ballad  of  East  and  West Rudyard  Kipling  640 

Mandalay    "  645 

Recessional    "  "  648 

Down  by  the  Salley  Gardens.  .  .  .William  Butler  Yeats  649 

The  Rose  of  the  World "  "  650 

Twilight    Stephen   Phillips  650 

The  Call  of  the   Spring Alfred  Noyes  651 

Unity "  "  653 


THE  VISTA  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 


THE  VISTA  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 


PART  FIRST 
BALLADS 

(OF  VARIOUS  AND  UNCERTAIN   DATES) 

CHEVY  CHASE 

(Sometimes  called  Tlie  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot) 

THE  Perse  owt  off  Northombarlonde, 

and  avowe  to  God  mayd  he 
That  he  wold  hunte  in  the  mowntayns 

off  Chyviat  within  days  thre, 
5  In  the  magger  of  doiighte  Dogles, 

and  all  that  ever  with  him  be. 

The  fattiste  hartes  in  all  Cheviat 
he  sayd  he  wold  kyll,  and  cary  them  away: 

'  Be  my  f eth,'  sayd  the  dougheti  Doglas  agayn, 
'  I  wyll  let  that  hontyng  yf  that  I  may.' 

Then  the  Perse  owt  off  Banborowe  cam, 

with  him  a  myghtee  meany, 
With  fifteen  hondrith  archares  bold  off  blood  and 
bone, 

the  wear  chosen  owt  of  'shyars  thre. 


BALLADS 

This  begane  on  a  Monday  at  morn, 

in  Cheviat  the  hillys  so  he; 
The  chylde  may  rue  that  ys  unborn, 

it  vvos  the  more  pitte. 

The  dryvars  thorowe  the  woodes  went, 

for  to  reas  the  dear; 
Bomen  byckarte  uppone  the  bent 

with  ther  browd  aros  cleare. 

Then  the  wyld  thorowe  the  woodes  went, 

on  every  syde  shear; 
Greahondes  thorowe  the  grevis  glent, 

for  to  kyll  thear  dear. 

This  begane  in  Chyviat  the  hyls  abone, 

yerly  on  a  Monnyn-day; 
Be  that  it  drewe  to  the  oware  off  none, 

a  hondrith  fat  harte's  ded  ther  lay. 

The  blewe  a  mort  uppone  the  bent, 

the  semblyde  on  sydis  shear; 
To  the  quyrry  then  the  Perse  went, 

to  se  the  bryttlynge  off  the  deare. 

He  sayd,  'It  was  the  Duglas  promys 

this  day  to  met  me  hear; 
But  I  wyste  he  wolde  f aylle,  verament ; ' 

a  great  oth  the  Perse  swear. 

At  the  laste  a  squyar  off.  Northomberlonde 

lokyde  at  his  hand  full  ny; 
He  was  war  a  the  doughetie  Doglas  commynge, 

with  him  a  myghtte  meany. 


CHEVY  CHASE  3 

Both  with  spear,  bylle,  and  brande, 

yt  was  a  myghtti  sight  to  se; 
Hardyar  men,  both  off  hart  nor  hande, 

wear  not  in  Cristiante. 

The  wear  twenti  hondrith  spear-men  good, 

withoute  any  feale; 
The  wear  borne  along  be  the  watter  a  Twyde, 

yth  bowndes  of  Tividale. 

'  Leave  of  the  brytlyng  of  the  dear,'  he  sayd, 
'  and  to  your  boys  lock  ye  tayk  good  hede ; 

For  never  sithe  ye  wear  on  your  mothars  borne 
had  ye  never  so  mickle  nede.' 

The  dougheti  Dogglas  on  a  stede, 

he  rode  alle  his  men  beforne; 
His  armor  glytteryde  as  dyd  a  glede; 

a  boldar  barne  was  never  born. 

'  Tell  me  whos  men  ye  ar',  he  says, 

'  or  whos  men  that  ye  be : 

Who  gave  youe  leave  to  hunte  in  this  Chyviat 
chays, 

in  the  spyt  of  myn  and  of  me.' 

The  first  mane  that  ever  him  an  answear  mayd, 

yt  was  the  good  lord  Perse: 
'  We  wyll  not  tell  the  whoys  men  we  ar,'  he  says> 

'  nor  whos  men  that  we  be ; 
But  we  wyll  hounte  hear  in  this  chays, 

in  the  spyt  of  thyne  and  of  the. 

'The  fattiste  hartes  in  all  Chyviat 

we  have  kyld,  and  cast  to  carry  them  away : ' 
'  Be  my  troth,'  sayd  the  doughete  Dogglas  agayn, 

*  therf or  the  ton  of  us  shall  de  this  day.' 


BALLADS 

Then  sayd  the  doughte  Doglas 
unto  the  lord  Perse: 

'  To  kyll  alle  thes  giltles  men, 
alas,  it  wear  great  pitte! 


'  But,  Perse,  thowe  art  a  lord  of  lande, 
I  am  a  yerle  callyd  within  my  centre ; 

Let  all  our  men  uppone  a  parti  stande, 
and  do  the  battell  off  the  and  of  me.' 


'  Nowe  Cristes  core  on  his  crowne,'  sayd  the  lord 
Perse, 

*  who-so-ever  ther-to  says  nay ; 
Be  my  troth,  doughtte  Doglas,'  he  says, 

'  thow  shalt  never  se  that  day. 


'Nethar  in  Ynglonde,  Skottlonde,  nar  France, 
nor  for  no  man  of  a  woman  horn, 

But,  and  fortune  be  my  chance, 
I  dar  met  him,  on  man  for  on.' 


Then  bespayke  a  squyar  off  Northombarlonde, 
Richard  Wytharyngton  was  his  nam; 

'It  shall  never  be  told  in  Sothe- Ynglonde,'  he 

says, 
'to  Kyng  Kerry  the  Fourth  for  sham. 


'  I  wat  youe  byn  great  lordes  twaw, 

I  am  a  poor  squyar  of  lande: 
I  wylle  never  se  my  captayne  fyght  on  a  fylde, 

and  stande  my  selffe  and  loocke  on, 
But  whylle  I  may  my  weppone  welde, 

I  wylle  not  fayle  both  hart  and  hande.' 


CHEVY  CHASE 

That  day,  that  day,  that  dredfull  day! 

the  first  fit  here  I  fynde; 

And  youe  wyll  here  any  mor  a  the  hountyng  a  the 
Chyviat, 

yet  ys  ther  mor  behynde. 

The  Yngglyshe  men  hade  ther  bowys  yebent, 

ther  hartes  wer  good  yenoughe; 
The  first  off  arros  that  the  shote  off, 

seven  skore  spear-men  the  sloughe. 

Yet  byddys  the  yerle  Doglas  uppon  the  bent, 

a  captayne  good  yenoughe, 
And  that  was  sene  verament, 

for  he  wrought  horn  both  woo  and  wouche. 

The  Dogglas  partyd  his  ost  in  thre, 

lyk  a  cheffe  chef  ten  off  pryde; 
With  suar  spears  off  myghtte  tre, 

the  cum  in  on  every  syde: 

Thrughe  our  Yngglyshe  archery 

gave  many  a  wounde  fulle  wyde; 
Many  a  doughete  the  garde  to  dy, 

which  ganyde  them  no  pryde. 

The  Ynglyshe  men  let  ther  boys  be, 
and  pulde  owt  brandes  thet  wer  brighte; 

It  was  a  hevy  syght  to  se 

bryght  swordes  on  basnites  lyght. 

Thorowe  ryche  male  and  myneyeple, 
many  sterne  the  strocke  done  streght; 

Many  a  freyke  that  was  fulle  fre, 
ther  undar  foot  dyd  lyght. 


BALLADS 

At  last  the  Duglas  and  the  Perse  met, 
lyk  to  captayns  of  myght  and  of  mayne; 

The  swapte  togethar  tylle  the  both  swat, 
with  swordes  that  wear  of  fyn  myllan. 

Thes  worthe  f reckys  for  to  fyght, 

ther-to  the  wear  fulle  fayne, 
Tylle -the  bloode  owte  off  thear  basnetes  sprente, 

as  ever  dyd  heal  or  rayn. 

'Yelde  the,  Perse,'  sayde  the  Doglas, 

'  and  i  feth  I  shalle  the  brynge 
Wher  thowe  shalte  have  a  yerls  wagis 

of  Jamy  our  Skottish  kynge. 

'  Thou  shalte  have  thy  ransom  f  re, 

I  hight  the  hear  this  thinge; 
For  the  manfullyste  man  yet  art  thowe 

that  ever  I  conqueryd  in  filde  fighttynge.' 

'  Nay,'  sayd  the  lord  Perse, 

'  I  told  it  the  bef orne, 
That  I  wolde  never  yeldyde  be 

to  no  man  of  a  woman  born.' 

With  that  ther  cam  an  arrowe  hastely, 

forthe  off  a  myghtte  wane; 
Hit  hathe  strekene  the  yerle  Duglas 

in  at  the  brest-bane. 

Thorowe  lyvar  and  longes  bathe 

the  sharpe  arrowe  ys  gane, 
That  never  after  in  all  his  lyffe-days 

he  spake  mo  wordes  but  ane: 
That  was,  'Fyghte  ye,  my  myrry  men,  whyllys 
ye  may, 

for  my  lyff-days  ben  gan.' 


CHEVY  CHASE  7 

The  Perse  leanyde  on  his  brande, 

and  sawe  the  Duglas  de; 
He  tooke  the  dede  mane  by  the  hande, 

and  sayd,  '  Wo  ys  me  for  the ! 

*  To  have  savyde  thy  lyffe,  I  wolde  have  partyde 
with 

my  landes  for  years  thre, 
For  a  better  man,  of  hart  nare  of  hande, 

was  nat  in  all  the  north  contre.' 

Off  all  that  se  a  Skottishe  knyght, 
was  callyd  Ser  Hewe  the  Monggombyrry ; 

He  sawe  the  Duglas  to  the  deth  was  dyght, 
he  spendyd  a  spear,  a  trusti  tre. 

He  rod  uppone  a  corsiare 

throughe  a  hondrith  archery; 
He  never  stynttyde,  nar  never  blane, 

tylle  he  cam  to  the  good  lord  Perse. 

He  set  uppone  the  lorde  Perse 

a  dynte  that  was  full  soare; 
With  a  suar  spear  of  a  myghtte  tre 

clean  thorow  the  body  he  the  Perse  ber, 

A  the  tothar  syde  that  a  man  myght  se 

a  large  cloth-yard  and  mare : 
Towe  bettar  captayns  wear  nat  in  Cristiante 

then  that  day  slan  wear  ther. 

An  archar  off  Northomberlondo 

say  slean  was  the  lorde  Perse; 
He  bar  a  bende  bowe  in  his  hand, 

was  made  off  trusti  tre. 


BALLADS 

An  arow,  that  a  cloth-yarde  was  lang, 

to  the  harde  stele  halyde  he; 
A  dynt  that  was  both  sad  and  soar 

he  sat  on  Ser  Hewe  the  Monggombyrry. 

The  dynt  yt  was  both  sad  and  sar, 

that  he  of  Monggomberry  sete; 
The  swane-fethars  that  his  arrowe  bar 

with  his  hart-blood  the  wear  wete. 

Ther  was  never  a  freake  wone  foot  wolde  fle, 

but  still  in  stour  dyd  stand, 
Heawyng  on  yche  othar,  whylle  the  myghte  dre, 

with  many  a  balfull  brande. 

This  battell  begane  in  Chyviat 

an  owar  befor  the  none, 
And  when  even-songe  bell  was  rang, 

the  battell  was  nat  half  done. 

The  tocke  ...  on  ethar  hande 

be  the  lyght  off  the  mone ; 
Many  hade  no  strenght  for  to  stande, 

in  Chyviat  the  hillys  abon. 

Of  fifteen  hondrith  archars  of  Ynglonde 

went  away  but  seventi  and  thre; 
Of  twenti  hondrith  spear-men  of  Skotlonde, 

but  even  five  and  fifti. 


But  all  wear  slayne  Cheviat  within; 

the  hade  no  strengthe  to  stand  on  hy; 
The  chylde  may  rue  that  ys  unborne, 

it  was  the  mor  pitte. 


CHEVY  CHASE 

Thear  was  slayne,  withe  the  lord  Perse, 

Sir  Johan  of  Agerstone, 
Ser  Rogar,  the  hinde  Hartly, 

Ser  Wyllyam,  the  bolde  Hearone. 

Ser  Jorg,  the  worthe  Loumle, 

a  knyghte  of  great  renowen, 
Ser  Raff,  the  ryche  Rugbe, 

with  dyntes  wear  beaten  dowene. 

For  Wetharryngton  my  harte  was  wo, 

that  ever  he  slayne  shulde  be; 
For  when  both  his  leggis  wear  hewyne  in  to, 

yet  he  knyled  and  fought  on  hys  kny. 

Ther  was  slayne,  with  the  dougheti  Duglas, 

Ser  Hewe  the  Monggombyrry, 
Ser  Davy  Lwdale,  that  worthe  was, 

his  sistar's  son  was  he. 

Ser  Charls  a  Murre  in  that  place, 

that  never  a  foot  wolde  fle; 
Ser  Hewe  Maxwelle,  a  lorde  he  was, 

with  the  Doglas  dyd  he  dey. 

So  on  the  morrowe  the  mayde  them  byears 

off  birch  and  hasell  so  gray ; 
Many  wedous,  with  wepyng  tears, 

cam  to  fache  ther  makys  away. 

Tivydale  may  carpe  off  care, 

North  ombarl  on  d  may  mayk  great  mon, 
For  towe  such  captayns  as  slayne  wear  thear, 

on  the  March-parti  shall  never  be  non. 


10  BALLADS 

Word  ys  commen  to  Eddenburrowe, 

to  Jamy  the  Skottische  kynge, 
That  dougheti  Duglas,  lyff-tenant  of  the  Marches, 

he  lay  slean  Chyviot  within. 

His  handdes  dyd  he  weal  and  wryng, 

he  sayd,  'Alas,  and  woe  ys  me! 
Such  an  othar  captayn  Skotland  within/ 

he  sayd,  '  ye-feth  shuld  never  be.' 

Worde  ys  commyn  to  lovly  Londone, 

till  the  fourth  Harry  our  kynge, 
That  lord  Perse,  leyff-tenante  of  the  Marchis, 

he  lay  slayne  Chyviat  within. 

'  God  have  merci  on  his  solle,'  sayde  Kyng  Harry, 

'good  lord,  yf  thy  will  it  be! 
I  have  a  hondrith  captayns   in   Ynglonde,'   he 
sayd, 

'  as  good  as  ever  was  he : 
But,  Perse,  and  I  brook  my  lyffe, 

thy  deth  well  quyte  shall  be.' 

As  our  noble  kynge  mayd  his  avowe, 

lyke  a  noble  prince  of  renowen, 
For  the  deth  of  the  lord  Perse 

he  dyde  the  battell  of  Hombyll-down ; 

Wher  syx  and  thritte  Skottishe  knyghtes 

on  a  day  wear  beaten  down: 
Glendale  glyterryde  on  ther  armor  bryght, 

over  castille,  towar,  and  town. 

This  was  the  hontynge  off  the  Cheviat, 

that  tear  begane  this  spurn; 
Old  men  that  knowen  the  grounde  well  yenoughe 

call  it  the  battell  of  Otterburn. 


SIR  PATRICK  SPENS  11 

At  Otterburn  begane  this  spume 

uppone  a  Monnynday; 
Ther  was  the  doughte  Doglas  slean, 

the  Perse  never  went  away. 

Ther  was  never  a  tym  on  the  Marche-partes 
sen  the  Doglas  and  the  Perse  met, 

But  yt  ys  mervele  and  the  reda  blude  ronne  not 
as  the  reane  doys  in  the  stret. 

Jhesue  Crist  our  balys  bete, 

and  to  the  blys  us  brynge! 
Thus  was  the  hountynge  of  the  Chivyat: 

God  send  us  alle  good  endyng! 


SIR  PATRICK  SPENS 

(From  Percy's  Ediqnes,  pub.  1765.     Date  uncertain,  but  a 
popular  ballad  in  1580) 

The  King  sits  in  Dumferling  toune, 

Drinking  the  blude-reid  wine; 
'  O  whar  will  I  get  guid  sailor, 

To  sail  this  schip  of  mine ? ' 


Up  and  spak  an  eldern  knicht, 
Sat  at  the  king's  richt  kne : 

*  Sir  Patrick  Spence  is  the  best  sailor, 
That  sails  upon  the  se.' 

The  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 
And  signed  it  wi  his  hand, 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
Was  walking  on  the  sand. 


12  BALLADS 

The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 

A  loud  lauch  lauched  he; 
The  next  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red 

The  teir  blinded  his  ee. 

'  O  wha  is  this  has  don  this  deid, 

This  ill  deid  don  to  me, 
To  send  me  out  this  time  o'  the  yeir, 

To  sail  upon  the  se! 

'Mak  hast,  mak  haste,  my  mirry  men  all, 
Our  guid  schip  sails  the  morne : ' 

'  O  say  na  sae,  my  master  deir, 
For  I  feir  a  deadlie  storme. 


'  Late  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  moone, 
Wi  the  auld  moone  in  hir  arme, 

And  I  feir,  I  feir,  my  deir  master, 
That  we  will  cum  to  harme.' 


O  our  Scots  nobles  wer  richt  laith 
To  weet  their  cork-heild  schoone ; 

Bot  lang  owre  a'  the  play  wer  playd, 
Thair  hats  they  swam  aboone. 

O  lang,  lang  may  their  ladies  sit, 
Wi  thair  fans  into  their  hand, 

Or  eir  they  se  Sir  Patrick  Spence 
Cum  sailing  to  the  land. 

O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  stand, 
Wi  thair  gold  kerns  in  their  hair, 

Waiting  for  thair  ain  deir  lords, 
For  they  '11  se  thame  na  mair. 


WALY,  WALY,  LOVE  BE  BONNIE  13 

Haf  owre,  haf  owre  to  Aberdour, 

It's  fiftie  fadom  deip, 
And  thair  lies  guid  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 

Wi  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feit. 


WALY,  WALY,  LOVE  BE  BONNIE 
(From  Allingham's  Ballad  Book,  1864) 

0  Waly,  waly,  up  the  bank, 

0  waly,  waly,  doun  the  brae, 
And  waly,  waly,  yon  burn-side, 

Where  I  and  my  love  wer  wont  to  gae! 

1  lean'd  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

1  thocht  it  was  a  trustie  tree, 

But  first  it  bow'd  and  syne  it  brak',  — 
Sae  my  true  love  did  lichtlie  me. 

O  waly,  waly,  but  love  be  bonnie 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new! 
But  when  it's  auld  it  waxeth  cauld, 

And  fadeth  awa'  like  the  morning  dew. 
O  wherefore  should  I  busk  my  heid, 

Or  wherefore  should  I  kame  my  hair? 
For  my  true  love  has  me  forsook, 

And  says  he  '11  never  lo'e  me  mair. 


Arthur's  Seat  sail  be  my  bed, 

The  sheets  sail  ne'er  bepress'd  by  me; 
Saint  Anton's  well  sail  be  my  drink; 

Since  my  true  love's  forsaken  me. 
Martinmas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw, 

And  shake  the  green  leaves  off  the  tree? 
O  gentle  death,  whan  wilt  thou  come? 

For  of  my  life  I  am  wearie. 


14  BALLADS 

'Tis  not  the  frost  that  freezes  fell, 

NOT  blawing  snaw's  inclemencie, 
'Tis  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry; 

But  my  love's  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 
When  we  cam'  in  by  Glasgow  toun, 

We  were  a  comely  sicht  to  see; 
My  love  was  clad  in  the  black  velvet, 

An'  I  mysel'  in  cramasie. 

But  had  I  wist  before  I  kiss'd 

That  love  had  been  so  ill  to  win, 
I'd  lock'd  my  heart  in  a  case  o'  goud, 

And  pinn'd  it  wi'  a  siller  pin. 
Oh,  oh !  if  my  young  babe  were  born, 

And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee; 
And  I  mysel'  were  dead  and  gane, 

And  the  green  grass  growing  over  me ! 


THE  TWA  SISTERS  O'  BINNORIE 
(From  the  same) 

There  were  twa  sisters  sat  in  a  bow'r ; 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
A  knight  cam'  there,  a  noble  wooer, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

He  courted  the  eldest  wi'  glove  and  ring, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
But  he  lo'ed  the  youngest  aboon  a'  thing, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

The  eldest  she  was  vexed  sair, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
And  sair  envied  her  sister  fair, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 


THE  TWA  SISTERS  O'  BINNORIE  15 

Upon  a  morning  fair  and  clear, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
She  cried  upon  her  sister  dear, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

'  0  sister,  sister,  tak'  my  hand,' 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
'  And  let's  go  down  to  the  river-strand,' 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

She's  ta'en  her  by  the  lily  hand, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
And  down  they  went  to  the  river-strand 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

The  youngest  stood  upon  a  stane, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
The  eldest  cam'  and  pushed  her  in, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

'  O  sister,  sister,  reach  your  hand ! ' 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
'  And  ye  sail  be  heir  o'  half  my  land  ' — 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

'  O  sister,  reach  me  but  your  glove ! ' 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
'And  sweet  William  sail  be  your  love' — 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

Sometimes  she  sank,  sometimes  she  swam, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
Till  she  cam'  to  the  mouth  o'  yon  mill-dam, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 


16  BALLADS 

Out  then  cam'  the  miller's  son 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
And  saw  the  fair  maid  soummin'  in, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

'  O  father,  father,  draw  your  dam ! ' 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
'  There's  either  a  mermaid  or  a  swan,' 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

The  miller  quickly  drew  the  dam, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
And  there  he  found  a  drown'd  woman, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

Round  about  her  middle  sma' 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
There  went  a  gouden  girdle  bra' 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

All  amang  her  yellow  hair 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
A  string  o'  pearls  was  twisted  rare, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

On  her  fingers  lily-white, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
The  jewel-rings  were  shining  bright, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

And  by  there  cam'  a  harper  fine, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
Harped  to  nobles  when  they  dine, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 


THE  TWA  SISTERS  0'  BINNORIE  17 

And  when  he  looked  that  lady  on, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
He  sigh'd  and  made  a  heavy  moan, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

He's  ta'en  three  locks  o'  her  yellow  hair, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
And  wi'  them  strung  his  harp  sae  rare, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

He  went  into  her  father's  hall, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
And  played  his  harp  before  them  all, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

And  sune  the  harp  sang  loud  and  clear, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
'  Fareweel,  my  father  and  mither  dear ! ' 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

And  neist  when  the  harp  began  to  sing, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
'Twas  '  Fareweel,  sweetheart ! '  said  the  string, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

And  then  as  plain  as  plain  could  be, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
'  There  sits  my  sister  wha  drowned  me ! 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie.' 


18  BALLADS 


BONNIE  GEORGE  CAMPBELL 

(From  Mother  well's  Minstrelsy,  1827.    Date  of  ballad 
uncertain) 

Hie  upon  Hielands, 

And  low  upon  Tay, 
Bonnie  George  Campbell 

Rade  out  on  a  day. 
Saddled  and  bridled 

And  gallant  rade  he; 
Hame  cam  his  gude  horse, 

But  never  cam  he! 

Out  cam  his  auld  mither 

Greeting  fu'  sair, 
And  out  cam  his  bonnie  bride 

Rivin'  her  hair. 
Saddled  and  bridled 

And  booted  rade  he; 
loom  hame  cam  the  saddle 

But  never  cam  he! 

"My  meadow  lies  green, 

And  my  corn  is  unshorn; 
My  barn  is  to  big, 

And  my  babie's  unborn." 
Saddled  and  bridled 

And  booted  rade  he; 
Toom  hame  cam  the  saddle, 

But  never  cam  he. 


HELEN  OF  KIKCONNELL  19 

HELEN  OF  KIRCONNELL 

PART  SECOND 
(From  Scott's  Border  Minstrelsy,  1802-3) 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee! 


Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succour  me! 


O  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  sair, 
When  my  love  dropt  down  and  spak  nae  mair! 
There  did  she  swoon  wi'  mickle  care 
On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee. 


As  I  went  down  the  water-side, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee! 

I  lighted  down,  my  sword  did  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

O,  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare! 
I'll  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair, 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair, 
Until  the  day  I  die. 


BALLADS 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 
Says,  "  Haste,  and  come  to  me ! " 

0  Helen  fair!  O  Helen  chaste! 
If  I  were  with  thee,  I  were  blest, 
Where  thou  lies  low,  and  takes  thy  rest, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee. 

1  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  ower  my  een 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies, 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 


PART  SECOND 
SPENSER   TO  DRYDEN. 

EDMUND   SPENSER 

dr.  1553-1599 
THE     FAERIE     QUEENE 

(From  the  First  Book,  which  contains  The  Legend  of  the 
Knight  of  the  Red  Crosse,  or  of  Holineste.  published  with 
Bks.  II.  and  III.,  1590) 

I. 

Lo!  I,  the  man  whose  Muse  whylome  did  maske, 
As  time  her  taught,  in  lowly  Shephards  weeds, 
Am  now  enforst,  a  farre  unfitter  taske, 
For  trumpets  sterne  to  chaunge  mine  oaten  reeds, 
And  sing  of  knights  and  ladies  gentle  deeds ; 
Whose  praises  having  slept  in  silence  long, 
Me,  all  too  meane,  the  sacred  Muse  areeds 
To  blazon  broade  emongst  her  learned  throng: 
Fierce  warres  and  faithfull  loves  shall  moralize  my 
song. 

II. 

Helpe  then,  O  holy  virgin,  chiefe  of  nyne, 
Thy  weaker  novice  to  performe  thy  will; 
Lay  forth  out  of  thine  everlasting  scryne 
The  antique  rolles,  which  there  lye  hidden  still, 
Of  Faerie  knights,  and  fayrest  Tanaquill, 
Whom  that  most  noble  Briton  Prince  so  long 
Sought  through  the  world,  and  suffered  so  much  ill, 
That  I  must  rue  his  undeserved  wrong: 
0,  helpe  thou  my  weake  wit,  and  sharpen  my  dull  tong } 

21 


22  SPENSER  TO  DBYDEN 

III. 

And  thou,  most  dreaded  impe  of  highest  Jove, 
Faire  Venus  sonne,  that  with  thy  crucll  dart 
At  that  good  knight  so  cunningly  didst  rove, 
That  glorious  fire  it  kindled  in  his  hart; 
Lay  now  thy  deadly  heben  bowe  apart, 
And  with  thy  mother  mylde  come  to  mine  ayde; 
Come,  both ;  and  with  you  bring  triumphant  Mart, 
In  loves  and  gentle  jollities  arraid, 
After  his  murderous  spoyles  and  bloudie  rage  allayd. 

IV. 

And  with  them  eke,  O  Goddesse  heavenly  bright, 

Mirrour  of  grace,  and  maiestie  divine, 

Great  ladie  of  the  greatest  Isle,  whose  light 

Like    Phoebus   lampe   throughout    the   world    doth 

shine, 

Shed  thy  faire  beames  into  my  feeble  eyne, 
And  raise  my  thoughtes,  too  humble  and  too  vile, 
To  thinke  of  that  true  glorious  type  of  thine, 
The  argument  of  mine  afflicted  stile : 
The  which  to  heare  vouchsafe,   O   dearest  Dread,  a 
while. 

CANTO  I. 

TJie  patron  of  true  Holinesse, 
Foule  Errour  doth  defeate  ; 

Hypocrisie,  him  to  entrappe, 
Doth  to  his  home  entreate. 

I. 

A  gentle  Knight  was  pricking  on  the  plaine, 
Ycladd  in  mightie  armes  and  silver  shielde, 
Wherein  old  dints  of  deepe  woundes  did  remaine, 
The  cruell  markes  of  many  a  bloody  fielde; 


EDMUND  SPENSER  23 

Yet  armes  till  that  time  did  he  never  wield: 
His  angry  steede  did  chide  his  foming  bitt, 
As  much  disdayning  to  the  curbe  to  yield : 
Full  iolly  knight  he  seemd,  and  faire  did  sitt, 
As  one  for  knightly  giusts  and  fierce  encounters  fitt. 

II. 

And  on  his  brest  a  bloodie  crosse  he  bore, 
The  deare  remembrance  of  his  dying  Lord, 
For  whose  sweete  sake  that  glorious  badge  he  wore, 
And  dead,  as  living  ever,  him  ador'd: 
Upon  his  shield  the  like  was  also  scor'd, 
For  soveraine  hope,  which  in  his  helpe  he  had, 
Eight,  faithfull,  true  he  was  in  deede  and  word; 
But  of  his  cheere  did  seeme  too  solemne  sad; 
Yet  nothing  did  he  dread,  but  ever  was  ydrad. 

III. 

Upon  a  great  adventure  he  was  bond, 
That  greatest  Gloriana  to  him  gave, 
That  greatest  glorious  Queene  of  Faery  lond, 
To  winne  him  worshippe,  and  her  grace  to  have, 
Which  of  all  earthly  thinges,  he  most  did  crave: 
And  ever  as  he  rode,  his  hart  did  earne, 
To  prove  his  puissance  in  battell  brave 
Upon  his  foe,  and  his  new  force  to  learne; 
Upon  his  foe,  a  Dragon  horrible  and  stearne. 

IV. 

A  lovely  Ladie  rode  him  faire  beside, 
Upon  a  lowly  asse  more  white  then  snow; 
Yet  she  much  whiter;  but  the  same  did  hide 
Under  a  vele,  that  wimpled  was  full  low; 
And  over  all  a  blacke  stole  shee  did  throw: 


24  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

As  one  that  inly  mournd,  so  was  she  sad, 
And  heavie  sate  upon  her  palfry  slow; 
Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had; 
And  by  her  in  a  line  a  milke-white  lambe  she  lad. 

v. 

So  pure  and  innocent,  as  that  same  lambe, 
She  was  in  life  and  every  vertuous  lore; 
And  by  descent  from  royall  lynage  came 
Of  ancient  kinges  and  queenes,  that  had  of  yore 
Their  scepters  stretcht  from  east  to  westerne  shore, 
And  all  the  world  in  their  subiection  held; 
Till  that  infernall  feend  with  foule  uprore 
Forwasted  all  their  land,  and  them  expeld; 
Whom   to    avenge    she   had    this    Knight    from   far 
compeld. 

VI. 

Behind  her  farre  away  a  Dwarfe  did  lag, 
That  lajie  seemd,  in  being  ever  last, 
Or  wearied  with  bearing  of  her  bag 
Of  needments  at  his  backe.     Thus  as  they  past, 
The  day  with  cloudes  was  'suddeine  overcast, 
And  angry  love  an  hideous  storme  of  raine 
Did  poure  into  his  lemans  lap  so  fast, 
That  everie  wight  to  shrowd  it  did  constrain; 
And  this  faire  couple  eke  to  shroud  themselves  were 


VII. 

Enforst  to  seeke  some  covert  nigh  at  hand, 
A  shadie  grove  not  farr  away  they  spide, 
That  promist  ayde  the  tempest  to  withstand; 
Whose  loftie  trees,  yclad  with  sommers  pride, 
Did  spred  so  broad,  that  heavens  light  did  hide. 


EDMUND  SPENSER  25 

Not  perceable  with  power  of  any  starr: 
And  all  within  were  pathes  and  alleies  wide, 
With  footing  worne,  and  leading  inward  fair: 
Faire  harbour  that  them  seemes;  so  in  they  entred  ar. 

VIII. 

And  foorth  they  passe,  with  pleasure  forward  led, 
Toying  to  heare  the  birdes  sweete  harmony, 
Which,  therein  shrouded  from  the  tempest  dred, 
Seemd  in  their  song  to  scorne  the  cruell  sky. 
Much  can  they  praise  the  trees  so  straight  and  hy, 
The  sayling  pine ;  the  cedar  proud  and  tall ; 
The  vine-propp  elme;  the  poplar  never  dry; 
The  builder  oake,  sole  king  of  forrests  all; 
The  aspine  good  for  staves;  the  cypresse  funerall; 

IX. 

The  laurell,  meed  of  mightie  conquerours 
And  poets  sage;  the  firre  that  weepeth  still; 
The  willow,  worne  of  forlorne  paramours; 
The  eugh,  obedient  to  the  benders  will ; 
The  birch  for  shaftes;  the  sallow  for  the  mill; 
The  mirrhe  sweete-bleeding  in  the  bitter  wound; 
The  warlike  beech;  the  ash  for  nothing  ill; 
The  fruitfull  olive;  and  the  platane  round; 
The  carver  holme;  the  maple  seeldom  inward  sound. 


Led  with  delight,  they  thus  beguile  the  way,         • 
Untill  the  blustring  storme  is  overblowne; 
When,  weening  to  returne  whence  they  did  stray, 
They  cannot  finde  that  path,  which  first  was  showne 
But  wander  too  and  fro  in  waies  unknowne, 


26  SPENSER  TO  DKYDEN 

Furthest  from  end  then,  when  they  neerest  weene, 
That  makes  them  doubt  their  wits  be  not  their  owne: 
So  many  pathes,  so  many  turnings  seene, 
That  which  of  them  to  take,  in  diverse  doubt  they 
been. 

XI. 

At  last  resolving  forward  still  to  fare, 
Till  that  some  end  they  finde,  or  in  or  out, 
That  path  they  take,  that  beaten  seemd  most  bare, 
And  like  to  lead  the  labyrinth  about; 
Which  when  by  tract  they  hunted  had  throughout, 
At  length  it  brought  them  to  a  hollowe  cave, 
Amid  the  thickest  woods.     The  Champion  stout 
Ef tsoones  dismounted  from  his  courser  brave, 
And  to  the  Dwarfe  a  while  his  needlesse  spere  he  gave. 

xir. 

"  Be  well  aware,"  quoth  then  that  Ladie  milde, 
"  Least  suddaine  mischief e  ye  too  rash  provoke : 
The  danger  hid,  the  place  unknowne  and  wilde, 
Breedes  dreadfull  doubts:  oft  fire  is  without  smoke, 
And  perill  without  show :  therefore  your  stroke, 
Sir  Knight,  withhold,  till  further  tryall  made." 
'''  Ah  Ladie,"  sayd  he,  "  shame  were  to  revoke 
The  forward  footing  for  an  hidden  shade: 
Vertuc  gives  her  selfe  light  through  darknesse  for  to 
wade." 

XIII. 

/ 

"  Yea,  but,"  quoth  she,  "  the  perill  of  this  place 
I  better  wot  then  you :  though  nowe  too  late 
To  wish  you  backe  returne  with  foule  disgrace, 
Yet  wisedome  warnes,  whilst  foot  is  in  the  gate, 


EDMUND  SPENSER  27 

To  stay  the  steppe,  ere  forced  to  retrate. 
This  is  the  wandring  wood,  this  Errours  den, 
A  monster  vile,  whom  God  and  man  does  hate: 
Therefore  I  read  beware."     "  Fly,  fly,"  quoth  then 
The   fearful  Dwarf e;   "This   is  no  place  for  living 
men." 

XIV. 

But,  full  of  fire  and  greedy  hardiment, 
The  youthf ull  Knight  could  not  for  ought  he  staide ; 
But  forth  unto  the  darksom  hole  he  went, 
And  looked  in:  his  glistring  armor  made 
A  litle  glooming  light,  much  like  a  shade; 
By  which  he  saw  the  ugly  monster  plaine, 
Halfe  like  a  serpent  horribly  displaide, 
But  th'other  halfe  did  womans  shape  retaine, 
Most  lothsom,  filthie,  foule,  and  full  of  vile  disdaine. 

[The  Red  Cross  Knight,  assisted  by  Una,  does  battle 
with  the  dragon,  Error.  As  the  combat  progresses,  the 
hideous  serpent-brood  of  Error,  "  deformed  monsters, 
foul  and  black  as  ink,"  swarming  about  the  Knight 
sorely  encumber  him.  The  poet  thus  compares  them 
to  a  cloud  of  gnats.] 

XXIII. 

As  gentle  shepheard  in  sweete  eventide, 
When  ruddy  Phebus  gins  to  welke  in  west, 
High  on  an  hill,  his  flocke  to  vewen  wide, 
Markes  which  doe  byte  their  hasty  supper  best; 
A  cloud  of  cumbrous  gnattes  doe  him  molest, 
All  striving  to  infixe  their  feeble  stinges, 
That  from  their  noyance  he  no  where  can  rest ; 
But  with  his  clownish  hands  their  tender  wings 
He  brusheth  oft,  and  oft  doth  mar  their  murmurings. 


28  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

XXIV. 

Thus  ill  bestedd,  and  fearefull  more  of  shame 
Then  of  the  certeine  perill  he  stood  in, 
Halfe  furious  unto  his  foe  he  came, 
Resolved  in  minde  all  suddenly  to  win, 
Or  soone  to  lose,  before  he  once  would  lin; 
And  stroke  at  her  with  more  then  manly  force, 
That  from  her  body,  full  of  filthie  sin, 
He  raft  her  hatefull  heade  without  remorse: 
A  streame  of  cole-black  blood  forth  gushed  from  her 
corse. 


XXVII. 

His  Lady  seeing  all  that  chaunst,  from  farre, 

Approcht  in  hast  to  greet  his  victorie; 

And    saide,    "  Faire    Knight,    borne    under    happie 

starre, 

Who  see  your  vanquisht  foes  before  you  lye ; 
Well  worthie  be  you  of  that  armory, 
Wherein  ye  have  great  glory  wonne  this  day, 
And  proov'd  your  strength  on  a  strong  enimie ; 
Your  first  adventure:  Many  such  I  pray, 
And  henceforth  ever  wish  that  like  succeed  it  may !  " 


[Having  re-mounted  his  steed,  the  Red-Cross  Knight 
and  Una  at  length  meet  in  the  forest  an  "  aged  sire  " 
clad  in  black,  having  a  gray  beard  and  a  sober  aspect. 
The  Knight,  having  saluted  him,  is  conducted  to  a 
hermitage  on  the  skirts  of  the  forest,  where  the  old 
man  tells  him  in  pleasing  words  about  Saints  and 
popes:  so  they  pass  the  evening  in  discourse.] 


EDMUND  SPENSER  29 

XXXYI. 

The  drouping  night  thus  creepeth  on  them  fast; 

And  the  sad  humor  loading  their  eyeliddes, 

As  messenger  of  Morpheus,  on  them  cast 

Sweet   slombring   deaw,   the   which   to   sleep   them 

biddes. 

Unto  their  lodgings  then  his  guestes  he  riddes: 
Where  when  all  drownd  in  deadly  sleepe  he  findes, 
He  to  his  studie  goes;  and  there  amiddes 
His  magick  bookes,  and  artes  of  sundrie  kindes, 
He  seekes  out  mighty  charmes  to  trouble  sleepy  minds. 

XXXVII. 

Then  choosing  out  few  words  most  horrible, 
(Let  none  them  read!)  thereof  did  verses  frame; 
With  which,  and  other  spelles  like  terrible, 
He  bad  awake  blacke  Plutoes  griesly  dame; 
And  cursed  heven;  and  spake  reprochful  shame 
Of  highest  God,  the  Lord  of  life  and  light. 
A  bold  bad  man !  that  dar'd  to  call  by  name 
Great  Gorgon,  prince  of  darknes  and  dead  night; 
At  which  Cocytus  quakes,  and  Styx  is  put  to  flight. 

XXXVIII. 

And  forth  he  cald  out  of  deepe  darknes  dredd 
Legions  of  sprights,  the  which,  like  litle  flyes, 
Fluttring  about  his  ever-damned  hedd, 
Awaite  whereto  their  service  he  applyes, 
To  aide  his  friendes,  or  fray  his  enimies : 
Of  those  he  chose  out  two,  the  falsest  twoo, 
And  fittest  for  to  forge  true-seeming  lyes; 
The  one  of  them  he  gave  a  message  too, 
The  other  by  him  selfe  staide  other  worke  to  doo. 


30  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

XXXIX. 

He,  making  speedy  way  through  spersed  ayre, 
And  through  the  world  of  waters  wide  and  deepe, 
To  Morpheus  house  doth  hastily  repaire. 
Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steepe, 
And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  never  peepe, 
His  dwelling  is;  there  Tethys  his  wet  bed 
Doth  ever  wash,  and  Cynthia  still  doth  steepe 
In  silver  deaw  his  ever-drouping  hed, 
Whiles  sad  Night  over  him  her  mantle  black   doth 
spred. 

XL. 

Whose  double  gates  he  findeth  locked  fast ; 
The  one  faire  fram'd  of  burnisht  yvory, 
The  other  all  with  silver  overcast; 
And  wakeful  dogges  before  them  farre  doe  lye, 
Watching  to  banish  Care  their  enimy, 
Who  oft  is  wont  to  trouble  gentle  Sleepe. 
By  them  the  Sprite  doth  passe  in  quietly, 
And  unto  Morpheus  comes,  whom  drowned  deepe 
In  drowsie  fit  he  findes ;  of  nothing  he  takes  keepe. 


XLI. 

And,  more  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling  downe, 
And  ever-drizling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the  sowne 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  caste  him  in  a  swowne. 
No  other  noyse,  nor  peoples  troublous  cryes, 
As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  towiic, 
Might  there  be  heard ;  but  carelesse  Quiet  lyes, 
Wrapt  in  eternall  silence  farre  from  enimyes. 


EDMUND  SPENSEE  31 

XLII. 

The  messenger  approching  to  him  spake; 
But  his  waste  words  retournd  to  him  in  vaine. 
So  sound  he  slept,  that  nought  mought  him  awake. 
Then  rudely  he  him  thrust,  and  pusht  with  paine, 
Whereat  he  gan  to  stretch :  but  he  againe 
Shooke  him  so  hard,  that  forced  him  to  speake. 
As  one  then  in  a  dreame,  whose  dryer  braine 
Is  tost  with  troubled  sights  and  fancies  weake, 
He  mumbled  soft,  but  would  not  all  his  silence  breake. 

XLIII. 

The  Sprite  then  gan  more  boldly  him  to  wake, 
And  threatned  unto  him  the  dreaded  name 
Of  Hecate:  whereat  he  gan  to  quake, 
And,  lifting  up  his  lompish  head,  with  blame 
Halfe  angrie  asked  him,  for  what  he  came. 
"  Hether,"  quoth  he,  "  me  Archimago  sent, 
He  that  the  stubborne  sprites  can  wisely  tame; 
He  bids  thee  to  him  send  for  his  intent 
A  fit  false  dreame,  that  can  delude  the  sleepers  sent." 

XLIV. 

The  god  obayde;  and,  calling  forth  straight  way 
A  diverse  dreame  out  of  his  prison  darke, 
Delivered  it  to  him,  and  downe  did  lay 
His  heavie  head,  devoide  of  careful  carke; 
Whose  sences  all  were  straight  benumbd  and  starke. 
He,  backe  returning  by  the  yvorie  dore, 
Remounted  up  as  light  as  chearefull  larke; 
And  on  his  litle  winges  the  dreame  he  bore 
In  hast  unto  his  lord,  where  he  him  left  afore. 


32  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

XLV. 

Who  all  this  while,  with  charmes  and  hidden  artes, 
Had  made  a  lady  of  that  other  spright, 
And  fram'd  of  liquid  ayre  her  tender  partes, 
So  lively,  and  so  like  in  all  mens  sight, 
That  weaker  sence  it  could  have  ravisht  quight : 
The  maker  selfe,  for  all  his  wondrous  witt, 
Was  nigh  beguiled  with  so  goodly  sight. 
Her  all  in  white  he  clad,  and  over  it 
Cast  a  black  stole,  most  like  to  seeme  for  Una  fit. 

XLVI. 

Now  when  that  ydle  Dreame  was  to  him  brought,    ' 
Unto  that  Elfin  Knight  he  bad  him  fly, 
Where  he  slept  soundly,  void  of  evil  thought, 
And  with  false  shewes  abuse  his  fantasy, 
In  sort  as  he  him  schooled  privily. 
And  that  new  creature,  borne  without  her  dew, 
Full  of  the  makers  guyle,  with  usage  sly, 
He  taught  to  imitate  that  Lady  trew, 
Whose  semblance  she  did  carrie  under  feigned  hew. 

[This  phantom,  in  the  outward  semblance  of  Una, 
conducts  herself  with  such  lightness  that  the  Knight  is 
perplexed  with  doubts  of  her  goodness  and  truthful- 
ness. At  last,  restless  and  tormented  by  evil  delusions 
conjured  up  by  Archimago,  the  Knight  mounts  his 
steed  and  flies  with  the  dwarf.  Thus  parted  from  Una, 
or  Truth,  by  the  wiles  of  the  Enchanter,  the  deluded 
Knight  falls  into  peril  in  a  meeting  with  Duessa,  or 
Falsehood. 

Meanwhile  the  heavenly  Una,  his  true  bride,  missing 
her  Knight,  sets  out  in  search  of  him,  alone  and  sor- 
rowful. The  poet  then  tells  how  the  lion  comes  to 
guard  her  in  her  need.] 


EDMUND  SPENSER  33 

CANTO  III. 

Forsaken  Truth  long  seeks  her  love, 

and  makes  the  Lyon  mylde ; 
Marres  blind  Devotions  mart,  andfals 

in  hand  of  treachour  vylde. 

I. 

Nought  is  there  under  heav'ns  wide  hollownesse, 
That  moves  more  cleare  compassion  of  mind, 
Then  beautie  brought  t'  unworthie  wretchednesse 
Through  envies  snares,  or  fortunes  freakes  unkind, 
I,  whether  lately  through  her  brightnes  blynd, 
Or  through  alleageance  and  fast  fealty, 
Which  I  do  owe  unto  all  woman  kynd, 
Feele  my  hart  perst  with  so  great  agony, 
When  such  I  see,  that  all  for  pitty  I  could  dy. 

II. 

And  now  it  is  empassioned  so  deepe, 
For  fairest  Unaes  sake,  of  whom  I  sing, 
That  my  fraile  eyes  these  lines  with  teares  do  steepe, 
To  thinke  how  she  through  guileful  handeling, 
Though  true  as  touch,  though  daughter  of  a  king, 
Though  faire  as  ever  living  wight  was  fayre, 
Though  nor  in  word  nor  deede  ill  meriting, 
Is  from  her  Knight  devorced  in  despayre, 
And  her  dew  loves  deryv'd  to  that  vile  witches  shayre. 

III. 

Yet  she,  most  faithfull  ladie,  all  this  while 
Forsaken,  wofull,  solitairie  mayd, 
Far  from  all  peoples  preace,  as  in  exile, 
In  wildernesse  and  wastfull  deserts  strayd, 


34  SPENSER  TO  DBYDEN 

To  seeke  her  Knight;  who  subtily  betrayd 
Through  that  late  vision,  which  th'  enchanter  wrought 
Had  her  abandoned.     She  of  naught  affrayd, 
Through  woods  and  wastness  wide  him  daily  sought ; 
Yet  wished  tydinges  none  of  him  unto  her  brought. 


IV. 

One  day,  nigh  wearie  of  the  yrksome  way, 
From  her  unhastie  beast  she  did  alight ; 
And  on  the  grasse  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secrete  shadow,  far  from  all  mens  sight; 
From  her  fayre  head  her  fillet  she  undight; 
And  layd  her  stole  aside.    Her  angels  face, 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shyned  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place ; 
Did  never  mortal!  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 


V. 

It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  lyon  rushed  suddeinly, 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  salvage  blood; 
Soone  as  the  royall  Virgin  he  did  spy, 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily, 
To  have  attonce  devoured  her  tender  corse. 
But  to  the  pray  when  as  he  drew  more  ny, 
His  bloody  rage  aswaged  with  remorse, 
And,  with  the  sight  amazd,  forgat  his  furious  forse. 


VI. 

Instead  thereof  he  kist  her  wearie  feet, 
And  lickt  her  lilly  hands  with  fawning  tong; 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet. 
O  how  can  beautie  maister  the  most  strong, 


EDMUND  SPENSER  35 

And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong! 
Whose  yielded  pryde  and  proud  submission, 
Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had  marked  long, 
Her  hart  gan  melt  in  great  compassion; 
And  drizling  teares  did  shed  for  pure  affection. 

VII. 

"  The  lyon,  lord  of  everie  beast  in  field," 
Quoth  she,  "his  princely  puissance  doth  abate, 
And  mightie  proud  to  humble  weake  does  yield, 
Forgetfull  of  the  hungry  rage,  which  late 
Him  prickt,  in  pittie  of  my  sad  estate: — 
But  he,  my  lyon,  and  my  noble  lord, 
How  does  he  find  in  cruell  hart  to  hate 
Her  that  him  lov'd,  and  ever  most  adord, 
As  the  God  of  my  life  ?  why  hath  he  me  abhord  ? " 

VIII. 

Redounding  teares  did  choke  th'  end  of  her  plaint, 
Which  softly  ecchoed  from  the  neighbour  wood; 
And,  sad  to  see  her  sorrowful  constraint, 
The  kingly  beast  upon  her  gazing  stood; 
With  pittie  calmd,  downe  fell  his  angry  mood. 
At  last,  in  close  hart  shutting  up  her  payne, 
Arose  the  Virgin  borne  of  heavenly  brood, 
And  to  her  snowy  palfrey  got  agayne 
To  seeke  her  strayed  champion,  if  she  might  attayne. 


IX. 


The  lyon  would  not  leave  her  desolate, 
But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong  gard 
Of  her  chast  person,  and  a  faythfull  mate 
Of  her  sad  troubles  and  misfortunes  hard: 


36  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Still,  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  watch  and  ward; 
And,  when  she  wakt,  he  wayted  diligent, 
With  humble  service  to  her  will  prepard: 
From  her  fayre  eyes  he  took  commandement, 
And  ever  by  her  lookes  conceived  her  intent. 

[Archimago,  learning  of  the  whereabouts  of  Una, 
assumes  the  arms  and  appearance  of  the  Red  Cross 
Knight,  and, — being  too  fearful  of  the  lion  to  join  her, 
— approaches  near  enough  to  her  to  be  seen.  Una  see- 
ing, as  she  supposes,  him  whom  she  has  sought  through 
wide  deserts,  and  with  great  toil  and  peril,  goes  up  to 
him  in  joy  and  humbleness,  while  Archimago,  feigning 
to  be  her  Knight,  greets  her  with  words  of  welcome 
and  vows  of  faithful  service.] 

XXX. 

His  lovely  words  her  seemd  due  recompence 
Of  all  her  passed  paines;  one  loving  howre 
For  many  yeares  of  sorrow  can  dispence; 
A  dram  of  sweete  is  worth  a  pound  of  sowre. 
Shee  has  forgott  how  many  woful  stowre 
For  him  she  late  endurd ;  she  speakes  no  more 
Of  past :  true  is,  that  true  love  hath  no  powre 
To  looken  backe;  his  eies  be  fixt  before. 
Before  her  stands  her  Knight,  for  whom  she  toyld  so 
sore. 

XXXI. 

Much  like,  as  when  the  beaten  marinere, 

That  long  hath  wandred  in  the  ocean  wide, 

Ofte  soust  in  swelling  Tethys  saltish  teare; 

And  long  time  having  tand  his  tawney  hide 

With  blustring  breath  of  heaven,  that  none  can  bide, 


EDMUND  SPENSER  37 

And  scorching  flames  of  fierce  Orions  hound; 
Soone  as  the  port  from  far  he  has  espide, 
His  chearfull  whistle  merily  doth  sound, 
And  Nereus  crownes  with  cups ;  his  mates  him  pledge 
around. 

XXXII. 

Such  ioy  made  Una,  when  her  Knight  she  found; 
And  eke  th'  Enchanter  ioyous  seemde  no  lesse 
Then  the  glad  marchant,  that  does  vew  from  ground 
His  ship  far  come  from  watrie   wildernesse; 
He  hurles  out  vowes,  and  Neptune  oft  doth  blesse. 
So  forth  they  past;  and  all  the  way  they  spent 
Discoursing  of  her  dreadful  late  distresse, 
In  which  he  askt  her,  what  the  lyon  ment; 
Who  told  her  all  that  fell,  in  iourney  as  she  went. 

XXXIII. 

They  had  not  ridden  far,  when  they  might  see 
One  pricking  towards  them  with  hastie  heat, 
Full  strongly  armd,  and  on  a  courser  free 
That  through  his  fiersenesse  fomed  all  with  sweat, 
And  the  sharpe  yron  did  for  anger  eat, 
When  his  hot  ryder  spurd  his  chauffed  side; 
His  looke  was  sterne,  and  seemed  still  to  threat 
Cruell  revenge,  which  he  in  hart  did  hyde; 
And  on  his  shield  Sans  Ioy  in  bloody  lines  was  dyde. 

[Archimago,  in  the  guise  of  the  Red  Cross  Knight, 
thus  journeying  with  Una  meets  a  Paynim,  or  Saracen, 
named  Sansloy.  Sansloy  attacks  Archimago,  who  is 
overthrown.  When  he  is  unhelmed,  Una  sees  to  her 
surprise  the  face  of  Archimago  instead  of  that  of  the 
Red  Cross  Knight.  The  Paynim,  leaving  Archimago 
dying,  rudely  approaches  Una  and  drags  her  from  her 


38  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

palfrey.      The  poet  then  describes  the  combat  of  the 
Paynim  with  the  lion.] 

XLI. 

But  her  fiers  servant,  full  of  kingly  aw 
And  high  disdaine,  whenas  his  soveraiiie  Dame 
So  rudely  handled  by  her  foe  he  saw, 
With  gaping  iawes  full  greedy  at  him  came, 
And,  ramping  in  his  shield,  did  weene  the  same 
Have  reft  away  with  his  sharp  rending  clawes : 
But  he  was  stout,  and  lust  did  now  inflame 
His  corage  more,  that  from  his  griping  pawes 
He  hath  his  shield  redeemd;  and  forth  his  sword  he 
drawes. 

XLII. 

O  then,  too  weake  and  feeble  was  the  forse 
Of  salvage  beast,  his  puissance  to  withstand! 
For  he  was  strong,  and  of  so  mightie  corse, 
As  ever  wielded  speare  in  warlike  hand; 
And  feates  of  armes  did  wisely  understand. 
Eftsoones  he  perced  through  his  chaufed  chest 
With  thrilling  point  of  deadly  yron  brand, 
And  launcht  his  lordly  hart :  with  death  opprest 
He   ror'd   aloud,   whiles   life   forsooke   his   stubborne 
brest. 

XLIII. 

Who  now  is  left  to  keepe  the  forlorne  Maid 
From  raging  spoile  of  lawlesse  victors  will? 
Her  faithful  gard  remov'd;  her  hope  dismaid; 
Her  selfe  a  yielded  pray  to  save  or  spill! 
He  now,  lord  of  the  field,  his  pride  to  fill, 
With  foule  reproches  and  disdaineful  spright 
Her  vildly  entertaines;  and,  will  or  nill 
Beares  her  away  upon  his  courser  light 
Her  prayers   naught   prevaile;   his   rage   is   more   of 
might. 


EDMUND  SPENSER  39 

XLIV. 

And  all  the  way,  with  great  lamenting  paine, 
And  piteous  plaintes  she  filleth  his  dull  eares, 
That  stony  hart  could  riven  have  in  twaine; 
And  all  the  way  she  wetts  with  flowing  teares ; 
But  he,  enrag'd  with  rancor,  nothing  heares. 
Her  servile  beast  yet  would  not  leave  her  so, 
But  followes  her  far  of,  ne  ought  he  feares 
To  be  partaker  of  her  wandring  woe, 
More  mild  in  beastly  kind,  then  that  her  beastly  foe. 

[After  many  mishaps  and  adventures  the  Book  ends 
with  the  happy  union  of  the  Red  Cross  Knight  and 
Una; — the  marriage  of  Holiness  and  Truth.] 


BOOK  II. 
CANTO  VI. 

THE  STORY  OP  SIR  GUYON,   OR  THE  KNIGHT  OP 
TEMPERANCE 

Guyon  is  of  immodest  Merlh 
Led  into  loose  desyre ; 

Fights  with  Chymochles,  whiles  his  bro- 
ther burnes  in  furious  fyre. 

I. 

A  harder  lesson  to  learne  Continence 
In  ioyous  pleasure  then  in  grievous  paine ; 
For  sweetnesse  doth  allure  the  weaker  sence 
So  strongly,  that  uneathes  it  can  refraine 
From  that  which  feeble  nature  covets  faine; 
But  griefe  and  wrath,  that  be  her  enemies, 
And  foes  of  life,  she  better  can  abstainer 
Yet  Vertue  vauntes  in  both  her  victories; 
And  Guyon  in  them  all  shewes  goodly  mysteries. 


40  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

[Cymochles  having  met  a  damsel  who  represents  in- 
temperate pleasure,  is  tempted  by  her  to  neglect  duty 
in  inglorious  idleness  and  self-indulgence.  He  falls 
under  the  spell  of  her  blandishments  and  his  coming 
under  her  allurements  to  the  Idle  Lake,  the  home  of 
pleasure,  is  thus  described:] 

XI. 

Whiles  thus  she  talked,  and  whiles  thus  she  toyd, 
They  were  far  past  the  passage  which  he  spake, 
And  come  unto  an  island  waste  and  voyd, 
That  floted  in  the  midst  of  that  great  lake; 
There  her  small  gondelay  her  port  did  make, 
And  that  gay  payre,  issewing  on  the  shore, 
Disburdened  her.     Their  way  they  forward  take 
Into  the  land  that  lay  them  faire  before, 
Whose    pleasaunce    she    him    shewde,    and    plentifull 
great  store. 

XII. 

It  was  a  chosen  plott  of  fertile  land, 
Emongst  wide  waves  sett,  like  a  little  nest, 
As  if  it  had  by  Nature's  cunning  hand 
Bene  choycely  picked  out  from  all  the  rest, 
And  laid  forth  for  ensample  of  the  best: 
No  daintie  flowre  or  herbe  that  growes  on  grownd, 
No  arborett  with  painted  blossomes  drest 
And  smelling  sweete,  but  there  it  might  be  fownd 
To  bud   out   faire,   and   throwe  her   sweete   smels   al 
around. 

XIII. 

No  tree  whose  braunches  did  not  bravely  spring; 
No  braunch,  whereon  a  fine  bird  did  not  sitt; 
No  bird,  but  did  her  shrill  notes  sweetly  sing; 
No  song  but  did  containe  a  lovely  ditt. 


EDMUND  SPENSER  41 

Trees,  braunches,  birds,  and  songs,  were  framed  fitt 
For  to  allure  f raile  mind  to  careless  ease : 
Carelesse  the  man  soone  woxe,  and  his  weake  witt 
Was  overcome  of  thing  that  did  him  please; 
So  pleased  did  his  wrathfull  purpose  faire  appease. 

XIV. 

Thus  when  shoe  had  his  eyes  and  sences  fed 
With  false  delights,  and  fild  with  pleasures  vayn, 
Into  a  shady  dale  she  soft  him  led, 
And  layd  him  downe  upon  a  grassy  playn; 
And  her  sweete  selfe  without  dread  or  disdayn 
She  sett  beside,  laying  his  head  disarmd 
In  her  loose  lap,  it  softly  to  sustayn, 
Where  soone  he  slumbred  fearing  not  be  harm'd, 
The  whiles  with  a  love   lay   she   thus    him    sweetly 
charmd : 

XV. 

"  Behold,  O  man !  that  toilsome  paines  doest  take, 
The  flowrs,  the  fields,  and  all  that  pleasaunt  growes, 
How  they  themselves  doe  thine  ensample  make, 
Whiles  nothing  envious  nature  them  forth  throwes 
Out  of  her  fruitf ull  lap ;  how,  no  man  knowes, 
They  spring,  they  bud,  they  blossome  fresh  and  faire, 
And    decke    the    world    with    their    rich    pompous 

showes ; 

Yet  no  man  for  them  taketh  paines  or  care, 
Yet  no  man  to  them  can  his  carefull  paines  compare. 

XVI. 

"  The  lilly,  lady  of  the  flowring  field, 
The  flowre-de-luce,  her  lovely  paramoure, 
Bid  thee  to  them  thy  fruitlesse  labors  yield, 
And  soone  leave  off  this  toylsome  weary  stoure: 


42  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Loe!  loe;  how  brave  she  decks  her  bounteous  boure, 
With  silkin  curtens,  and  gold  coverletts, 
Therein  to  shrowd  her  sumptuous  belamoure! 
Yet  neither  spinnes  nor  cards,  ne  cares  nor  fretts, 
But  to  her  mother  Nature  all  her  care  she  letts. 


XVII. 

"  Why  then  doest  thou,  O  man,  that  of  them  all 
Art  lord,  and  eke  of  nature  soveraine, 
Wilfully  make  thyselfe  a  wretched  thrall, 
And  waste  thy  ioyous  howres  in  needelesse  paine, 
Seeking  for  daunger  and  adventures  vaine? 
What  bootes  it  al  to  have,  and  nothing  use? 
Who  shall  him  rew  that  swimming  in  the  maine 
Will  die  for  thrist,  and  water  doth  refuse? 
Eefuse   such   fruitlesse   toile,    and   present   pleasures 
chuse." 

XVIII. 

By  this  she  had  him  lulled  fast  asleepe, 
That  of  no  worldly  thing  he  care  did  take: 
Then  she  with  liquors  strong  his  eies  did  steepe, 
That  nothing  should  him  hastily  awake. 
So  she  him  lefte,  and  did  herselfe  betake 
Unto  her  boat  again,  with  which  she  clefte 
The  slouthf ull  wave  of  that  great  griesy  lake : 
Soone  shee  that  Island  far  behind  her  lefte, 
And  now  is  come  to  that  same  place  where  first  she 
wefte. 

[Sir  Guyon,  who  has  also  been  assailed  by  the  temp- 
tations of  Pleasure,  next  encounters  Mammon,  or  the 
temptations  of  Avarice.] 


EDMUND  SPENSER  43 

BOOK  II 
CANTO  VII. 

Guy  on  findes  Mamon  in  a  delve 

sunning  his  threasure  hore  ; 
Is  by  him  tempted,  and  led  downe 

To  see  his  secret  store. 


So  Guyon,  having  lost  his  trustie  guyde, 
Late  left  beyond  that  Ydle  Lake,  proceedes 
Yet  on  his  way,  of  none  accompanyde; 
And  evermore  himselfe  with  comfort  feedes 
Of  his  own  vertues  and  praise-worthie  deedes. 
So,  long  he  yode,  yet  no  adventure  found, 
Which  Fame  of  her  shrill  trompet  worthy  reedes : 
For  still  he  traveild  through  wide  wastfull  ground, 
That  nought  but  desert  wildernesse  shewed  all  around. 

III. 

At  last  he  came  unto  a  gloomy  glade, 
Cover'd  with  boughes  and  shrubs  from  heavens  light, 
Whereas  he  sitting  found  in  secret  shade 
An  uncouth,  salvage,  and  uncivile  wight, 
Of  griesly  hew  and  fowle  ill-favour'd  sight; 
His  face  with  smoke  was  tand,  and  eies  were  bleard, 
His  head  and  beard  with  sout  were  ill  bedight, 
His  cole-blacke  hands  did  seeme  to  have  ben  seard 
In  smythes  fire-spitting  forge,  and  nayles  like  clawes 
appeard. 

IV. 

His  yron  cote,  all  overgrowne  with  rust, 

Was  underneath  enveloped  with  gold; 

Whose  glistering  glosse  darkened  with  filthy  dust, 

Well  yet  appeared  to  have  beene  of  old 


44  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

A  worke  of  rich  entayle  and  curious  mould, 
Woven  with  antickes  and  wyld  ymagery; 
And  in  his  lap  a  masse  of  coyne  he  told, 
And  turned  upside  downe,  to  feede  his  eye 
And  covetous  desire  with  his  huge  threasury. 


V. 

And  round  about  him  lay  on  every  side 
Great  hcapes  of  gold  that  never  could  be  spent ; 
Of  which  some  were  rude  owre,  not  purifide 
Of  Mulcibers  devouring  element; 
Some  others  were  new  driven,  and  distent 
Into  great  Ingowes  and  to  wedges  square; 
Some  in  round  plates  withouten  moniment; 
But  most  were  stampt,  and  in  their  metal  bare 
The  antique  shapes  of  kings  and  kesars  stroung  and 
rare. 

VI. 

Soone  as  he  Guyon  saw,  in  great  affright 
And  haste  he  rose  for  to  remove  aside 
Those  pretious  hils  from  straungers  envious  sight, 
And  downe  them  poured  through  an  hole  full  wide 
Into  the  hollow  earth,  them  there  to  hide; 
But  Guyon,  lightly  to  him  leaping,  stayd 
His  hand  that  trembled  as  one  terrifyde; 
And  though  himselfe  were  at  the  sight  dismayd, 
Fet   him   perforce   restraynd,    and   to   him   doubtfull 
sayd: 

Til. 

"  What  art  thou,  Man,  (if  man  at  all  thou  art,) 
That  here  in  desert  hast  thine  habitaunce, 
And  these  rich  hils  of  welth  doest  hide  apart 
From  the  wo  rides  eye,  and  from  her  right  usaunce  ? " 


EDMUND  SPENSER  45 

Thereat,  with  staring  eyes  fixed  askaunce, 
In  great  disdaine  he  answerd :  "  Hardy  Elf  e, 
That  darest  vew  my  direful  countenaunce ! 
I  read  thee  rash  and  heedlesse  of  thy  selfe, 
To  trouble  my  still  seate,  and  heapes  of  pretious  pelfe. 

VIII. 

"  God  of  the  world  and  worldlings  I  me  call, 
Great  Mammon,  greatest  god  below  the  skye, 
That  of  my  plenty  poure  out  unto  all, 
And  unto  none  my  graces  do  envye: 
Riches,  renowme,  and  principality, 
Honour,  estate,  and  all  this  worldes  good, 
For  which  men  swinck  and  sweat  incessantly, 
Fro  me  do  flow  into  an  ample  flood, 
And  in  the  hollow  earth  have  their  eternall  brood. 


IX. 

"  Wherefore,  if  me  thou  deigne  to  serve  and  sew, 
At  thy  commaund  lo !  all  these  mountaines  bee ; 
Or  if  to  thy  great  mind,  or  greedy  vew, 
All  these  may  not  suffise,  there  shall  to  thee 
Ten  times  so  much  be  nombred  francke  and  free." 
"  Mammon,"  said  he,  "  thy  godheads  vaunt  is  vaine, 
And  idle  offers  of  thy  golden  fee; 
To  them  that  covet  such  eye-glutting  gaine 
Proffer  thy  giftes,  and  fitter  servaunte  entertaine. 

x. 

"Me  ill  besits,  that  in  derdoing  armes 
And  honours  suit  my  vowed  daies  do  spend, 
Unto  thy  bounteous  baytes,  and  pleasing  charmes, 
With  which  weake  men  thou  witchest,  to  attend ; 


46  SPENSER  TO  DBYDEN 

Regard  of  worldly  mucke  doth  fowly  blend, 

And  low  abase  the  high  heroicke  spright, 

That  ioyes  for  crownes  and  kingdomes  to  contend; 

Faire   shields,   gay    steedes,    bright    armes,    be   my 

delight ; 
Those  be  the  riches  fit  for  an  advent'rous  knight." 

XI. 

"Vaine  glorious  Elfe,"  saide  he,  "doest  not  thou 

weet, 

That  money  can  thy  wantes  at  will  supply? 
Shields,  steeds,  and  armes,  and  all  things  for  thee 

meet, 

It  can  purvay  in  twinckling  of  an  eye; 
And  crownes  and  kingdomes  to  thee  multiply. 
Doe  not  I  kings  create,  and  throw  the  crowne 
Sometimes  to  him  that  low  in  dust  doth  ly, 
And  him  that  raignd  into  his  rowme  thrust  downe, 
And  whom  I  lust  do  heape  with  glory  and  renowne  ? " 

XII. 

"  All  otherwise,"  saide  he,  "  I  riches  read, 
And  deeme  them  roote  of  all  disquietnesse ; 
First  got  with  guile,  and  then  preserv'd  with  dread, 
And  after  spent  with  pride  and  lavishnesse, 
Leaving  behind  them  grief e  and  heavinesse: 
Infinite  mischief es  of  them  doe  arize; 
Strife  and  debate,  bloodshed  and  bitternesse, 
Outrageous  wrong  and  hellish  covetize, 
That  noble  heart,  in  great  dishonour,  doth  despize. 

XIII. 

'*'  Ne  thine  be  Kingdomes,  ne  the  scepters  thine ; 
But  realmes  and  rules  thou  doest  both  confound, 
And  loyall  truth  to  treason  doest  incline: 
Witnesse  the  guiltlesse  blood  pourd  oft  on  ground; 


EDMUND   SPENSER  47 

The  crowned  often  slaine;  the  slayer  cround; 
The  sacred  diademe  in  peeces  rent, 
And  purple  robe  gored  with  many  a  wound, 
Castles  surprizd,  great  cities  sackt  and  brent: 
So  mak'st  thou  kings,  and  gaynest  wrongfull  govern- 
ment ! 

XIV. 

"  Long  were  to  tell  the  troublous  stormes  that  tosse 
The  private  state,  and  make  the  life  unsweet: 
Who  swelling  sayles  in  Caspian  sea  doth  crosse, 
And  in  frayle  wood  on  Adrian  gulf  doth  fleet, 
Doth  not,  I  weene,  so  many  evils  meet." 
Then   Mammon   wexing   wroth :  "  And   why   then," 

sayd, 

"  Are  mortall  men  so  fond  and  undiscreet 
So  evill  thing  to  seeke  unto  their  ayd ; 
And  having  not,  complaine,  and  having  it,  upbrayd  ? " 


XIX. 

"  Me  list  not,"  said  the  Elfin  Knight,  "  receave 
Thing  offred,  till  I  know  it  well  be  gott ; 
Ne  wote  I  but  thou  didst  these  goods  bereave 
From  rightfull  owner  by  unrighteous  lott, 
Or  that  blood-guiltinesse  or  guile  them  blott." 
"  Perdy,"  quoth  he,  "  yet  never  eie  did  vew, 
~Ne  tong  did  tell,  ne  hand  these  handled  not; 
But  safe  I  have  them  kept  in  secret  mew 
From  hevens  sight  and  powre  of  al  which  them  pour- 
sew." 

XX. 

"  What  secret  place,"  quoth  he,  "  can  safely  hold 
So  huge  a  masse,  and  hide  from  heavens  eie? 
Or  where  hast  thou  thy  wonne,  that  so  much  gold 
Thou  canst  preserve  from  wrong  and  robbery  ? " 


48  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

"  Come  thou,"  quoth  he,  "  and  see."     So  by  and  by 
Through  that  thick  covert  he  him  led,  and  fownd 
A  darksome  way,  which  no  man  could  descry, 
That  deep  descended  through  the  hollow  grownd, 
And  was  with  dread  and  horror  compassed  arownd. 

XXI. 

At  length  they  came  into  a  larger  space, 
That  strecht  itself e  into  an  ample  playne; 
Through  which  a  beaten  broad  high  way  did  trace 
That  streight  did  lead  to  Plutoes  griesly  rayne: 
By  that  wayes  side  there  sate  infernall  Payne, 
And  fast  beside  him  sat  tumultuous  Strife; 
The  one  in  hand  an  yron  whip  did  strayne, 
The  other  brandished  a  bloody  knife; 
And  both  did  gnash  their  teeth,  and  both  did  threten 
Life. 

XXII. 

On  th'other  side  in  one  consort  there  sate 
Cruell  Revenge,  and  rancorous  Despight, 
Disloyall  Treason,  and  hart-burning  Hate; 
But  gnawing  Gealosy,  out  of  their  sight 
Sitting  alone,  his  bitter  lips  did  bight; 
And  trembling  Feare  still  to  and  fro  did  fly. 
And  found  no  place  wher  safe  he  shroud  him  might : 
Lamenting  Sorrow  did  in  darknes  lye; 
And  Shame  his  ugly  face  did  hide  from  living  eye. 

XXIII. 

And  over  them  sad  ITorror  with  grim  hew 
Did  alwaies  sore,  beating  his  yron  wings; 
And  after  him  owles  and  night-ravens  flew, 
The  hatefull  messengers  of  heavy  things, 


EDMUND   SPENSER  49 

Of  death  and  dolor  telling  sad  tidings; 
Whiles  sad  Celeno,  sitting  on  a  clifte, 
A  song  of  bale  and  bitter  sorrow  sings, 
That  hart  of  flint  a  sender  could  have  rifte; 
Which  having  ended,  after  him  she  flyeth  swifte. 

XXIV. 

All  these  before  the  gates  of  Pluto  lay; 
By  whom  they  passing  spake  unto  them  nought ; 
But  th'  Elfin  Knight  with  wonder  all  the  way 
Did  feed  his  eyes,  and  fild  his  inner  thought. 
At  last  him  to  a  litle  dore  he  brought, 
That  to  the  gate  of  hell,  which  gaped  wide, 
Was  next  adiogning,  ne  them  parted  ought: 
Betwixt  them  both  was  but  a  litle  stride, 
That  did  the  house  of  Richesse  from  hell-mouth  divide. 

XXV. 

Before  the  dore  sat  selfe-consuming  Care, 
Day  and  night  keeping  wary  watch  and  ward, 
For  feare  least  Force  or  Fraud  should  unaware 
Breake  in,  and  spoile  the  treasure  there  in  gard: 
Ne  would  he  suffer  Sleepe  once  thether-ward 
Approch,  albe  his  drowsy  den  were  next ; 
For  next  to  Death  is  Sleepe  to  be  compard; 
Therefore  his  house  is  unto  his  annext: 
Here  Sleepe,  there  Richesse,  and  Hel-gate  them  both 
betwext. 

XXVI. 

So  soone  as  Mammon  there  arrivd,  the  dore 
To  him  did  open,  and  affoorded  way: 
Him  followed  eke  Sir  Guyon  evermore; 
Ne  darknesse  him,  ne  daunger  might  dismay. 


50  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Soone  as  he  entred  was,  the  dore  streight  way 
Did  shutt,  aud  from  behind  it  forth  there  lept 
An  ugly  feend,  more  fowle  than  dismall  day; 
The  which  with  monstrous  stalke  behind  him  stept, 
And  ever  as  he  went  dew  watch  upon  him  kept. 


XXVIII. 

That  houses  forme  within  was  rude  and  strong, 
Lyke  an  huge  cave  hewne  out  of  rocky  clifte, 
From  whose  rough  vaut  the  ragged  breaches  hong 
Embost  with  massy  gold  of  glorious  guifte, 
And  with  rich  metall  loaded  every  rifte, 
That  heavy  mine  they  did  seeme  to  threatt; 
And  over  them  Arachne  high  did  lifte 
Her  cunning  web,  and  spred  her  subtile  nett, 
Enwrapped  in  fowle  smoke  and  clouds  more  black  then 
iett. 

XXIX. 

Both  roofe,  and  floore,  and  walls,  were  all  of  gold, 
But  overgrown  with  dust  and  old  decay, 
And  hid  in  darknes,  that  none  could  behold 
The  hew  thereof :  for  vew  of  cheref ull  day 
Did  never  in  that  house  it  selfe  display, 
But  a  faint  shadow  of  uncertein  light ; 
Such  as  a  lamp,  whose  life  does  fade  away; 
Or  as  the  moone,  cloathed  with  clowdy  night, 
Does  shew  to  him  that  walks  in  feare,  and  sad  affright. 

XXX. 

In  all  that  rowme  was  nothing  to  be  seene 
But  huge  great  yron  chests,  and  coffers  strong, 
All  bard  with  double  bends,  that  none  could  weene 
Them  to  efforce  by  violence  or  wrong; 


EDMUND  SPENSER  51 

On  every  side  they  placed  were  along. 
But  all  the  grownd  with  sculs  was  scattered 
And  dead  mens  bones,  which  round  about  were  flong ; 
Whose  lives,  it  seemed,  whilome  there  were  shed, 
And  tht'ir  vile  carcases  now  left,  unburied. 

XXXI. 

They  forward  passe;  ne  Guyon  yet  spoke  word, 
Till  that  they  came  unto  an  yron  dore, 
Which  to  them  opened  of  his  owne  accord, 
And  shewd  of  richesse  such  exceeding  store, 
As  eie  of  man  did  never  see  before, 
Ne  ever  could  within  one  place  be  fownd, 
Though  all  the  wealth  which  is,  or  was  of  yore, 
Could  gathered  be  through  all  the  world  arownd, 
And  that  above  were  added  to  that  under  grownd. 

XXXII. 

The  charge  thereof  unto  a  covetous  spright 
Commaunded  was,  who  thereby  did  attend, 
And  warily  awaited  day  and  night, 
From  other  covetous  feends  it  to  defend, 
Who  it  to  rob  and  ransacke  did  intend. 
Then  Mammon,  turning  to  that  warriour,  said: 
"  Loe,  here  the  worldes  blis !  loe,  here  the  end, 
To  which  al  men  doe  ayme,  rich  to  be  made! 
Such  grace  now  to  be  happy  is  before  thee  laid." 

XXXIII. 

"  Certes,"  said  he,  "  I  n'  ill  thine  offred  grace, 
"Ne  to  be  made  so  happy  doe  intend ! 
Another  blis  before  mine  eyes  I  place, 
Another  happincs,  another  end. 


52  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

To  them  that  list,  these  base  regardes  I  lend: 
But  I  in  armes,  and  in  achievements  brave, 
Do  rather  choose  my  flitting  houres  to  spend, 
And  to  be  lord  of  those  that  riches  have, 
Then    them    to   have   myselfe,    and    be    their    servile 
sclave." 

XXXIV. 

Thereat  the  Feend  his  gnashing  teeth  did  grate, 
And  griev'd,  so  long  to  lacke  his  greedie  pray; 
For  well  he  weened  that  so  glorious  bayte 
Would  tempt  his  guest  to  take  thereof  assay : 
Had  he  so  doen,  he  had  him  snatcht  away 
More  light  then  culver  in  the  f aulcoiis  fist : 
Eternall  God  thee  save  from  such  decay! 
But,  whenas  Mammon  saw  his  purpose  mist, 
Him  to  entrap  unwares  another  way  he  wist. 

[The  poet  then  goes  on  to  tell  of  the  further  tempta- 
tions to  which  Guyon  is  subjected,  and  of  how  the 
Knight  withstands  them.  At  length,  after  three  days 
have  passed,  according  to  men's  reckoning,  Guyon 
begs  to  be  taken  back  into  the  world,  and  Mammon, 
though  loth,  is  constrained  to  comply  with  the  request. 
But  as  soon  as  Guyon  reaches  the  vital  air  he  swoons, 
and  lies  as  one  dead.  The  next  Canto  (which  ends 
with  the  Knight's  recovery  and  re-union  with  the 
Palmer,  his  appointed  guide,)  begins  with  the  follow- 
ing stanzas  on  the  care  of  God  for  man,  thus  leading 
us  to  anticipate  the  happy  ending.] 

(From  Canto  VIII.) 
I. 

And  is  there  care  in  heaven  ?     And  is  there  love 
In  heavenly  spirits  to  these  creatures  bace, 
That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move? 
There  is:  else  much  more  wretched  were  the  cace 


EDMUND  SPENSEE  53 

Of  men  then  beasts.     But  O !  th'  exceeding  grace 
Of  highest  God  that  loves  his  creatures  so, 
And  all  his  workes  with  mercy  doth  embrace, 
That  blessed  Angels  he  sends  to  and  fro, 
To  serve  to  wicked  man,  to  serve  his  wicked  foe. 


II. 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave, 
To  come  to  succour  us  that  succour  want ! 
How  oft  do  they  with  golden  pineons  cleave 
The  flitting  skyes,  like  flying  Pursuivant, 
Against  f owle  f eendes  to  ayd  us  militant ! 
They  for  us  fight,  they  watch  and  dewly  ward, 
And  their  bright  sqadrons  round  about  us  plant; 
And  all  for  love,  and  nothing  for  reward. 
O !  why  should  hevenly  God  to  men  have  such  regard  ? 


THE  COURTIER 

(From  Mother  Hubberd's  Tale,  1591) 

Most  miserable  man,  whom  wicked  fate 
Hath  brought  to  court,  to  sue  for  had  ywist, 
That  few  have  found,  and  manie  one  hath  mist! 
Full  little  knowest  thou  that  hast  not  tride, 
What  hell  it  is  in  suing  long  to  bide : 
To  loose  good  dayes,  that  might  be  better  spent; 
To  wast  long  nights  in  pensive  discontent; 
To  speed  to  day,  to  be  put  back  tomorrow; 
To  feed  on  hope,  to  pine  with  feare  and  sorrow; 
To  have  thy  Princes  grace,  yet  want  her  Peeres; 
To  have  thy  asking,  yet  waite  manie  yeeres; 
To  fret  thy  soule  with  crosses  and  with  cares; 
To  eate  thy  heart  through  comfortlesse  dispaires; 


54  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

To  fawne,  to  crowche,  to  waite,  to  ride,  to  roime, 
To  spend,  to  give,  to  want,  to  be  undonne. 
Unhappie  wight,  borne  to  desastrous  end, 
That  doth  his  life  in  so  long  tendance  spend ! 
Who  ever  leaves  sweete  home,  where  meane  estate 
In  safe  assurance,  without  strife  or  hate, 
Findes  all  things  needf ull  for  contentment  meeke, 
And  will  to  court  for  shadowes  vaine  to  seeke, 
Or  hope  to  gaine,  himselfe  will  one  daie  crie, 
That  curse  God  send  unto  mine  enemie! 

SONNET  XL. 
(From  Amoretti,  1595) 

Mark  when  she  smiles  with  amiable  cheare, 
And  tell  me  whereto  can  ye  lyken  it; 
When  on  each  eyelid  sweetly  doe  appeare 
An  hundred  Graces  as  in  shade  to  sit. 
Lykest  it  seemeth,  in  my  simple  wit, 
Unto  the  fayre  sunshine  in  somers  day; 
That,  when  a  dreadfull  storm  away  is  flit, 
Thrugh  the  broad  world  doth  spred  his  goodly  ray: 
At  sight  whereof,  each  bird  that  sits  on  spray., 
And  every  beast  that  to  his  den  was  fled, 
Comes  forth  afresh  out  of  their  late  dismay, 
And  to  thy  light  lift  up  their  drouping  hed. 
So  my  storme-beaten  hart  likewise  is  cheared 
With  that  sunshine,  when  cloudy  looks  are  cleared. 

SONNET  LXXV. 
(From  the  same) 

One  day  I  wrote  her  name  upon  the  strand; 
But  came  the  waves  and  washed  it  away: 
Agayne,  I  wrote  it  with  a  second  hand; 
And  came  the  tyde,  and  made  my  paynes  his  pray. 


EDMUND  SPENSER  55 

S(  Vayne  man,"  sayd  she,  "  that  doest  in  vayne  assay  . 

A  mortall  thing  so  to  immortalize; 
For  I  myselve  shall  lyke  to  this  decay, 
And  eek  my  name  bee  wyped  out  lykewize." 
"  Not  so  "  (quod  I)  ;  "  let  baser  things  devize 
To  dy  in  dust,  but  you  shall  live  by  fame: 
My  verse  your  vertues  rare  shall  eternize, 
And  in  the  hevens  wryte  your  glorious  name; 

Where,  when  as  death  shall  all  the  world  subdew, 
Our  love  shall  live,  and  later  life  renew." 


ELIZABETHAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS 


1553-1606 

APELLES'  SONG 
(From  Alexander  and  Campaspe,  1584  ;  acted  1581) 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 

At  cards  for  kisses,  —  Cupid  paid; 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow  and  arrows, 

His  mother's  doves,  and  team  of  sparrows: 

Loses  them  too;  then  down  he  throws 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 

Growing  on  's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how)  ; 

With  these  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 

And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin: 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win. 

At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes; 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  Love,  has  she  done  this  to  thee? 

What  shall,  alas  !  become  of  me  ? 

IRobert  (Breene 

1560-1592 

CONTENT 
(From  Farewell  to  Folly,  1591) 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savour  of  content. 
The  quiet  mind  is  richer  than  a  crown, 

56 


ELIZABETHAN-  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       57 

Sweet  are  the  nights  in  careless  slumber  spent. 

The  poor  estate  scorns  fortune's  angry  frown: 
Such  sweet  content,  such  minds,  such  sleep,  such  bliss, 
Beggars  enjoy,  when  princes  oft  do  miss, 

The  homely  house  that  harbours  quiet  rest, 
The  cottage  that  affords  no  pride  nor  care, 

The  mean  that  grees  with  country  music  best, 
The  sweet  consort  of  mirth  and  modest  fare, 

Obscured  life  sets  down  a  type  of  bliss : 

A  mind  content  both  crown  and  kingdom  is. 


(In  The  Passionate  Pugrim,  1599,  enlarged  form  in  England's 
Helicon,  1600) 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 
That  valleys,  groves,  hills  and  fields, 
Woods  or  steepy  mountains  yields. 

And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 
A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle ; 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull; 


58  SPENSEK  TO   DRYDEN 

Fair-lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold; 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs: 
An  if  these  pictures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning: 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 


Ubomas  Befcfeer 

dr.  1570— dr.  1637 

O  SWEET  CONTENT 

(From  The  Patient  Grissell,  acted  1599) 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers  ? 

O  sweet  content! 
Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplexed? 

O  punishment! 

Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vexed 
To  add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  numbers? 
O  sweet  content !  O  sweet  O  sweet  content ! 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 
Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face ; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny! 

Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped  spring  ? 

O  sweet  content! 
Swim'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in  thine  own  tears? 

O  punishment! 
Then  he  that  patiently  want's  burden  bears 


ELIZABETHAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS  59 

No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king ! 

O  sweet  content !  O  sweet  O  sweet  content ! 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 
Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny! 


Ubomas 

1581  (?)-1640  (?) 

GOOD  MORROW 

(From  The  Rape  of  Lucrece,  1608  (printed),  acted  dr.  1605) 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day, 

With  night  we  banish  sorrow; 
Sweet  air  blow  soft,  mount  lark  aloft, 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow; 
Bird  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale  sing-, 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 
Notes  from  them  both  I'll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  rest,  robin-redbreast, 

Sing  birds  in  every  furrow; 
And  from  each  bill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow, 
You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves 

Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow ; 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow 
Sing  birds  in  every  furrow. 


60  SPENSER  TO  DEYDEN 

Ubomas  Campion 

D.  1619  (?) 

TO  LESBIA 
(In  Rosseter's  Book  of  Airs,  1601) 

My  sweetest  Lesbia,  let  us  live  and  love, 
And  though  the  sager  sort  our  deeds  reprove 
Let  us  not  weigh  them.    Heaven's  great 

do  dive 

Into  their  west,  and  straight  again  revive; 
But  soon  as  once  set  is  our  litle  light, 
Then  must  we  sleep  one  ever-during  night. 

If  all  would  lead  their  lives  in  love  like  me, 
Then  bloody  swords  and  armour  should  not  be; 
No   drum   nor   trumpet   peaceful   sleeps    should 

move, 

Unless  alarm  came  from  the  Camp  of  Love : 
But  fools  do  live  and  waste  their  little  light. 
And  seek  with  pain  their  ever-during  night. 

When  timely  death  my  life  and  fortunes  ends. 
Let    not    my    hearse    be    vext    with    mourning 

friends ; 

But  let  all  lovers,  rich  in  triumph,  come 
And  with  sweet  pastimes  grace  my  happy  tomb ; 
And,  Lesbia,  close  up  thou  my  little  light 
And  crown  with  love  my  ever-during  night. 

THE  ARMOUR  OF  INNOCENCE 
(From  the  same) 

The  man  of  life  upright, 
Whose  guiltless  heart  is  free 


ELIZABETHAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS  61 

From  all  dishonest  deeds, 
Or  thought  of  vanity; 

The  man  whose  silent  days 

In  harmless  joys  are  spent, 
Whom  hopes  cannot  delude 

Nor  sorrow  discontent: 

That  man  needs  neither  towers 

Nor  armour  for  defence, 
Nor  secret  vaults  to  fly 

From  thunder's  violence : 


He  only  can  behold 
With  unaffrighted  eyes 

The  horrors  of  the  deep 
And  terrors  of  the  skies. 

Thus  scorning  all  the  cares 
That  fate  or  fortune  brings, 

He  makes  the  heaven  his  book; 
His  wisdom  heavenly  things; 

Good  thoughts  his  only  friends, 
His  wealth  a  well-spent  age, 

The  earth  his  sober  inn 
And  quiet  pilgrimage. 


FORTUNATI  N1MIUM 

Jack  and  Joan,  they  think  no  ill, 
But  loving  live,  and  merry  still; 
Do  their  week-day's  work,  and  pray 
Devoutly  on  the  holy-day: 


62  SPENSER  TO  DRDYEN 

Skip  and  trip  it  on  the  green, 

And  help  to  choose  the  Summer  Queen; 

Lash  out  at  a  country  feast 

Their  silver  penny  with  the  best. 

Well  can  they  judge  of  nappy  ale, 

And  tell  at  large  a  winter  tale; 

Climb  up  to  the  apple  loft, 

And  turn  the  crabs  till  they  be  soft. 

Tib  is  all  the  father's  joy, 

And  little  Tom  the  mother's  boy : — 

All  their  pleasure  is,  Content, 

And  care,  to  pay  their  yearly  rent. 

Joan  can  call  by  name  her  cows 
And  deck  her  windows  with  green  boughs; 
She  can  wreaths  and  tutties  make, 
And  trim  with  plums  a  bridal  cake. 
Jack  knows  what  brings  gain  or  loss, 
And  his  long  flail  can  stoutly  toss : 
Makes  the  hedge  which  others  break, 
And  ever  thinks  what  he  doth  speak. 

Now,  you  courtly  dames  and  knights, 
That  study  only  strange  delights, 
Though  you  scorn  the  homespun  gray, 
And  revel  in  your  rich  array; 
Though  your  tongues  dissemble  deep 
And  can  your  heads  from  danger  keep; 
Yet,  for  all  your  pomp  and  train, 
Securer  lives  the  silly  swain! 


ELIZABETHAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS  63 

3obn  jfletcber 

1579-1625 

SONG  OF  THE  PRIEST  OF  PAN 
(From  The  Faithful  Shepherdess,  Act  II.  sc.  1,  acted  1610) 

Shepherds  all,  and  maidens  fair 
Fold  your  flocks  up,  for  the  air 
'Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  sun 
Already  his  great  course  hath  run. 
See  the  dew-drops  how  they  kiss 
Every  little  flower  that  is ; 
Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads. 
Like  a  rope  of  crystal  beads; 
See  the  heavy  clouds  low  falling. 
And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 
The  dead  night  from  under  ground; 
At  whose  rising  mists  unsound, 
Damps  and  vapours  fly  apace, 
Hovering  o'er  the  wanton  face 
Of  these  pastures,  where  they  come 
Striking  dead  both  bud  and  bloom : 
Therefore  from  such  danger  loek 
Every  one  his  loved  flock; 
And  let  your  dogs  lie  loose  without, 
Lest  the  wolf  come  as  a  scout 
From  the  mountain,  and,  ere  day, 
Bear  a  lamb  or  kid  away; 
Or  the  crafty  thievish  fox 
Break  upon  your  simple  flocks. 
To  secure  yourselves  from  these 
Be  not  too  secure  in  ease; 
Let  one  eye  his  watches  peep 
While  the  other  eye  doth  sleep ; 
So  you  shall  good  shepherds  prove, 


64  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

And  for  ever  hold  the  love 
Of  our  great  god.     Sweetest  slumbers, 
And  soft  silence,  fall  in  numbers 
On  your  eyelids !     So,  farewell ! 
Thus  I  end  my  evening's  knell. 


SONG  TO  PAN 
(From  the  same,  Act.  V.  sc.  5.) 

All  ye  woods,  and  trees,  and  bowers, 
All  ye  virtues  and  ye  powers 
That  inhabit  in  the  lakes, 
In  the  pleasant  springs  or  brakes, 
Move  your  feet 

To  our  sound, 
Whilst  we  greet 

All  this  ground 

With  his  honour  and  his  name 
That  defends  our  flocks  from  blame. 

He  is  great,  and  he  is  just, 
He  is  ever  good,  and  must 
Thus  be  honoured.     Daffodillies, 
Roses,  pinks,  and  loved  lilies, 

Let  us  fling 

Whilst  we  sing 

Ever  holy, 

Ever  holy, 

Ever  honoured,  ever  young! 
Thus  great  Pan  is  ever  sung*! 


ELIZABETHAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS  65 

jf  rancis  Beaumont 

1586(?)-1616 

ON  THE  LIFE  OF  MAN 
(From  Poems,  1640) 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star, 

Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are, 

Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 

Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew, 

Or  like  the  wind  that  chafes  the  flood, 

Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood; 

Even  such  is  man,  whose  borrowed  light 

Is  straight  called  in  and  paid  to-night. 

The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies, 

The  spring  entombed  in  autumn  lies, 

The  dew's  dried  up,  the  star  is  shot, 

The  flight  is  past,  and  man  forgot. 

ON  THE  TOMBS  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

(From  Poems,  1653) 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear! 

What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here! 

Think  how  many  royal  bones 

Sleep  within  this  heap  of  stones; 

Here  they  lie,  had  realms  and  lands, 

Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their  hands ; 

Where  from  their  pulpits  sealed  with  dust 

They  preach,  "  In  greatness  is  no  trust." 

Here's  an  acre  sown  indeed 

With  the  richest,  royall'st  seed 

That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in 

Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin : 

Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried, 

"  Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they  died ! " 


66  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 
Dropt  from  the  ruined  sides  of  kings: 
Here's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state, 
Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 


Sir  Denes  Motton 

1568-1639 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 
(Written  dr.  1614) 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will; 

Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought. 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill; 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are; 

Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death. 
Untied  unto  the  world  by  care 

Of  public  fame  or  private  breath; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise, 
Nor  vice;  who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good  ; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumours  freed ; 

Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 

Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend. 


ELIZABETHAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       67 

This  man  is  fi-eed  from  servile  bands 

Of  hope  to  rise  or  fear  to  fall ; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands, 

And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


Sir  Walter 

1552-1618 

THE  NYMPH'S  REPLY  TO  THE  PASSIONATE 
SHEPHERD 

(From  England's  Helicon,  1600) 

If  all  the  world  and  Love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue, 
These  pleasures  might  my  passion  move, 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

But  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 
When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold; 
And  Philomel  becometh  dumb, 
The  rest  complains  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields; 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancies  spring  but  sorrows  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies, 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten, 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy -buds, 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs, 
All  those  in  me  no  moans  can  move, 
To  come  to  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 


68  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

But  could  youth  last,  could  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date,  had  age  no  need; 
Then  those  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 


3Ben  Sonson 

1573-1637 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OP  MY  BELOVED  MASTER  WILLIAM  8HAKS- 
PEARE,  AND  WHAT  HE  HATH  LEFT  US 

(From  First  Folio  edition  of  Shakespeare,  1623) 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakspeare,  011  thy  name, 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame; 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such, 
As  neither  Man  nor  Muse  can  praise  too  much. 
'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.     But  these  ways. 
Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise; 
For  silliest  ignorance  on  these  may  light, 
Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes  right: 
Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 
The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urgeth  all  by  chance; 
Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise, 
And  think  to  ruin  where  it  seemed  to  raise. 


But  thou  art  proof  against  them  and,  indeed, 
Above  the  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 
I  therefore  will  begin :  Soul  of  the  age ! 
The  applause,  delight,  the  wonder  of  our  stage! 
My  SHAKSPEARE,  rise!  I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 
A  little  further,  to  make  thee  a  room: 
Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb, 


ELIZABETHAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS  69 

Thou  art  alive  still  while  thy  book  doth  live, 
And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give. 
That  I  not  mix  thee  so  my  brain  excuses, — 
I  mean  with  great  but  disproportioned  Muses; 
For  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years, 
I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers, 
And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyly  outshine, 
Or  sporting  Kyd,  or  Marlowe's  mighty  line. 
And   though   thou   hadst   small   Latin   and   less 

Greek, 

From  thence  to  honour  thee  I  would  not  seek 
For  names,  but  call  forth  thund'ring  /Eschylus, 
Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us, 
Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead, 
To  life  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread, 
And  shake  a  stage ;  or  when  thy  socks  were  on, 
Leave  thee  alone  for  a  comparison 
Of  all  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 
Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come. 
Triumph,  my  Britain,  thou  hast  one  to  show, 
To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 
He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time ! 
And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime, 
When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 
Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm! 
Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs. 
And  joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines, 
Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit, 
As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit. 
The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 
Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please; 
But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie, 
As  they  were  not  of  Nature's  family. 
Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all;  thy  Art, 
My  gentle  Shakspeare,  must  enjoy  a  part. 
For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be, 
His  art  doth  give  the  fashion;  and  that  ha 


70  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line,  must  sweat 

(Such  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second  heat 

Upon  the  Muses'  anvil,  turn  the  same, 

And  himself  with  it,  that  he  thinks  to  frame; 

Or  for  the  laurel  he  may  gain  a  scorn ; 

For  a  good  poet's  made,  as  well  as  born. 

And  such  wert   thou!     Look,   how   the   father's 

face 

Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 
Of    Shakspeare's    mind    and    manners    brightlj 

shines 

In  his  well  turned  and  true  filed  lines, 
In  each  of  which- he  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 
As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 
Sweet  Swan  of  Avon!  what  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear, 
And    make    those    flights    upon    the    banks    of 

Thames, 

That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James ! 
But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 
Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there! 
Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  Poets,  and  with  rage 
Or  influence  chide  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage, 
Which,  since  thy  flight  from  hence,  hath  mourned 

like  night, 
And  despairs  day  but  for  thy  volume's  light. 

SIMPLEX  MUNDITIIS 

(From  Epiccene  ;  or,  The  Silent  Woman,  Act  I.  sc.  1., 
1609-10) 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast ; 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed: 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 

AH  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 


ELIZABETHAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS  Vl 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 
That  makes  simplicity  a  grace; 
Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free: 
Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 
Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art; 
They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 

THE  TRIUMPH  OP  CHARIS 

(From  "  A  Celebration  of  Charis  "  in  Underwoods,  1616) 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 

Wherein  my  Lady  rideth! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beauty; 
And  enamoured  do  wish,  so  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side, 
Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither  she  would 
ride. 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 

All  that  Love's  world  compriseth ! 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth! 
Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother 

Than  words  that  soothe  her; 
And  from  her  arched  brows,  such  a  grace 

Sheds  itself  through  the  fac3, 
As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 

All  the  gain,  all  the  good  of  the  elements'  strife, 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it? 

Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  o'  the  snow 
Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it? 


72  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  beaver? 

Or  swan's  down  ever? 
Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  o'  the  briar? 

Or  the  nard  in  the  fire? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee? 

O  so  white, — O  so  soft, — O  so  sweet  is  she! 


SONG.— TO  CYNTHIA 

(From  Cynthia's  Revels,  Act  V.  sc.  3,  1600) 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep; 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 
State  in  wonted  manner  keep: 

Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 

Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 
Dare  itself  to  interpose; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 
Heaven  to  clear,  when  day  did  close; 

Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 

Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 
And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 
Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever: 

Thou  that  makest  a  day  of  night, 

Goddess  excellently  bright. 


ELIZABETHAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS  73 

Miiliam  Sbafeespeare 

1564-1616 
SILVIA 

(From  The  Two   Gentlemen  of  Verona,  IV.  2,    1598  ;    acted 
about  1592-93; 

Who  is  Silvia?  what  is  she, 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 

Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she, 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 

That  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness: 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness; 
And,  being  help'd,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing, 

That  Silvia  is  excelling: 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing, 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling: 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE 
(From  As  Ton  Like  It,  II.  5,  acted  1599) 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


74  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleas'd  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither : 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

O  MISTRESS    MINE,  WHERE    ARE   YOU    ROAMING 
(From  Twelfth  Right,  II.  3,  about  1601) 

O  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 
O,  stay  and  hear;  your  true  love's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low: 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting, 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love?     'Tis  not  hereafter: 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

TAKE,  OH,  TAKE  THOSE  LIPS  AWAY 

(From  Measure  for  Measure,  IV.  1,  1603) 

Take,  oh  take  those  lips  away, 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn; 
5  But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

bring  again. 
Seals  of  love,  but  seal'd  in  vain, 

sealM  in  vain. 


ELIZABETHAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS  75 

HARK,  HARK,  THE  LARK 

(From  Cymbeline,  II.  3,  1609) 

Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chalic'd  flowers  that  lies; 

And  winking  Mary -buds  begin  to  ope  their  golden  eyes ; 
With  everything  that  pretty  is — My  lady  sweet,  arise: 
Arise,  arise. 

DIRGE 

(From  the  same,  IV.  2) 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  of  the  sun 

Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages: 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 
As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  groat, 

Thou  art  past  the  tyrants'  stroke; 
Care  no  more  to  clothe,  and  eat; 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak : 
The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  light'ning  flash; 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone; 
Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash; 
Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan: 
All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 
Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 


76  SPENSER  I'D  DRYDEN 

No  exerciser  harm  thee! 
Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee! 
Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee! 
Nothing  ill  come  near  thee! 
Quiet  consummation  have; 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave! 


A  SEA  DIRGE 
(From  The  Tempest,  I.  2,  1610) 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes: 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 

But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 

Into  something  rich  and  strange. 

Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell: 

Ding-dong. 

Hark!  now  I  hear  them — Ding-dong  bell. 


ARIEL'S  SONG 
(From  the  same,  Act  V.  sc.  1) 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I : 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie ; 

There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 


ELIZABETHAN  SONNETS 

Sir  pbilip  Stones 

1554-1586 
SONNET  XXXI 

(From  Astrophel  and  Stella,  dr.  1591) 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  skies ! 

How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face! 

What,  may  it  be  that  even  in  heavenly  place 

That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries? 

Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eye 

Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case; 

I  read  it  in  thy  looks,  thy  languished  grace, 

To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 

Then  ev'n  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me, 

Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want  of  wit? 

Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be? 

Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 

Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth  possess? 

Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness? 

SONNET  XXXIX— ON  SLEEP 
(From  the  same) 

Come,  Sleep!  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low; 


78  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

With  shield  of  proof,  shield  me  from  out  the  prease 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw : 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease; 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed ; 
A  chamber  deaf  of  noise,  and  blind  of  light ; 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head: 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  in  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me, 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 


Samuel  H>amel 

1562-1619 
SONNET  LI 

(From  Delia,  Containing  certain  Sonnets,  1592) 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night, 
Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness  born: 
Relieve  my  languish  and  restore  the  light; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care,  return, 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The  shipwreck  of  my  ill-adventured  youth: 
Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth. 
Cease  dreams,  the  images  of  day  desires, 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow; 
Never  let  rising  sun  approve  you  liars, 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow. 
Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain, 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 


ELIZABETHAN  SONNETS  79 


1563-1681 
SONNET  LXI 

(From  Idea's  Mirror,  1594) 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part, 

Nay  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me  ; 

And  I  am  glad,  yea  glad  with  all  my  heart, 

That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free; 

Shake  hands  forever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 

And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 

Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest  breath, 

When  his  pulse  failing,  Passion  speechless  lies, 

When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 

And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes: 

Now  if  thou  would'st,  when  all  have  given  him  over, 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet  recover. 

Milliam  DrummonO 

1585-1649 

ON  SLEEP 

(From  Poems,  Amorous,  Funeral,  etc.,  1616) 

Sleep,  Silence'  child,  sweet  father  of  soft  rest, 
Prince  whose  approach  peace  to  all  mortals  brings, 
Indifferent  host  to  shepherds  and  to  kings, 
Sole  comforter  of  minds  which  are  oppress'd; 
Lo,  by  thy  charming  rod,  all  breathing  things 
Lie  slumb'ring,  with  forgetfulness  possess'd, 
And  yet  o'er  me  to  spread  thy  drowsy  wings 
Thou  spar'st,  alas  !  who  cannot  be  thy  guest. 


80  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Since  i  am  thine,  O  come,  but  with  that  face 
To  inward  light,  which  thou  are  wont  to  shew, 
With  feigned  solace  ease  a  true-felt  woe; 
Or  if,  deaf  god,  thou  do  deny  that  grace, 

Come  as  thou  wilt,  and  what  thou  wilt  bequeath, 
I  long  to  kiss  the  image  of  my  death. 


Sbafeespeare 

SONNET  XXIX 

(From  Sonnets,  1595-1605) 

When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possessed, 
Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state, 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate: 
For  thy  sweet  love  rememb'red  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

SONNET  XXX 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste : 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 

And  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  cancell'd  woe, 

And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight : 


ELIZABETHAN  SONNETS  81 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 

And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 

Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored  and  sorrows  end. 

SONNET  XXXIII 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy; 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace: 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine 
With  all-triumphant  splendour  on  my  brow; 
But,  out,  alack!  he  was  but  one  hour  mine, 
The  region  cloud  hath  mask'd  him  from  me  now. 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain  when  heaven's  sun 
staineth. 

SONNET  LX 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled  shore, 

So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end; 

Each  changing  place  with  that  which  goes  before, 

In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 

Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light, 

Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crown'd, 

Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight, 

And  Time  that  gave  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 

Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set  on  youth 

And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow, 


82  SPENSER   TO  DRYDEN 

Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth, 
And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow: 
And  yet  to  times  in  hope  my  verse  shall  stand, 
Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

SONNET  LXXIII 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west; 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 

This  thou  perceivest,  which  makes  thy  love  more 
strong, 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

SONNET  CXVI 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove: 

O,  no!     It  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken. 

Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come; 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 

If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 

I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


ELIZABETHAN  SONNETS  88 

Sobn  Bonne 

1573-1631 

SONNET  X.— ON  DEATH 
(From  Holy  Sonmts,  written  before  1607) 

Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have  called  thee 

Mighty  and  dreadful,  for  thou  art  not  so; 

For  those  whom  thou  think'st  thou  dost  overthrow 

Die  not,  poor  Death;  nor  yet  cans' t  thou  kill  me. 

From  rest  and  sleep,  which  but  thy  picture  be, 

Much  pleasure,  then  from  thee  much  more  must  flow: 

And  soonest  our  best  men  with  thee  do  go, 

Rest  of  their  bones,  and  souls'  delivery. 

Thou  art  slave  to  Fate,  chance,  kings,  and  desperate 

men, 

And  dost  with  poison,  war,  and  sickness  dwell, 
And  poppy  or  charms  can  make  us  sleep  as  well, 
And  better  than  thy  stroke;  why  swell'st  thou,  then? 
One  short  sleep  pass,  we  wake  eternally, 
And  Death  shall  be  no  more;  Death,  thou  shalt  die. 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

/IDicbael  Drapton 

1563-1631 
AGINCOURT 

MY     FRIEXD8    THE     CAMBER-BRITOXS   AND     THEIR    HARP 

(From  Poems,  Lyrics  and  Pastorals,  1605  ?) 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 
And  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  not  tarry, 
But  put  unto  the  main, 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  warlike  train, 

Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Coming  toward  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour, 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  oppose  his  way, 
Where  as  the  gen'ral  lay 

With  all  his  power: 

Which  in  his  height  of  pride, 
As  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 
Unto  him  sending; 
84 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON  85 

Which  he  neglects  the  while, 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet  with  an  angry  smile, 
Their  fall  portending; 

And,  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  famous  Henry  then, 
'  Though  they  to  one  be  ten, 

Be  not  amazed; 
Yet  have  we  well  begun, 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Ever  more  to  the  sun 

By  fame  are  raised. 

'  And  for  myself,'  quoth  he, 
'  This  my  full  rest  shall  be, 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me, 

Nor  more  esteem  me. 
Victor  I  will  remain, 
Or  on  this  earth  be  slain, 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 

'  Poyters  and  Cressy  tell, 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 

Under  our  swords  they  fell, 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
In  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopp'd  the  French  lilies.' 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread, 
The  eager  vaward  led; 
With  the  main  Henry  sped, 
Amongst  his  henchmen. 


86  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Excester  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there, 
And  now  preparing  were 

For  the  false  Frenchman, 

And  ready  to  be  gone, 
Armor  on  armor  shone, 
Drum  unto  drum  did  groan, 

To  hear  was  wonder; 
That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake, 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 

O  noble  Erpingham, 

Thou  did'st  the  signal  frame 

Unto  the  forces; 
When  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly, 
The  English  archery 

Stuck  the  French  horses. 

The  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 
That  like  to  serpents  stong, 

Piercing  the  wether; 
None  from  his  death  now  starts, 
But  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilbows  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew: 
No  man  was  tardy; 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON  81 

Arms  from  the  shoulders  sent, 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went, 
These  were  men  hardy. 

When  now  that  noble  king, 
His  broad  sword  brandishing, 
Into  the  host  did  fling, 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it; 
Who  many  a  deep  wound  lent, 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Gloster,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood, 

With  his  brave  brother, 
Clarence,  in  steel  most  bright. 
That  yet  a  maiden  knight, 
Yet  in  this  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade, 
Oxford  the  foes  invade, 
And  cruel  slaughter  made, 

Still  as  they  ran  up; 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply, 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bear  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

On  happy  Crispin  day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 
Which  fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry; 
O  when  shall  Englishmen, 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen? 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry? 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  SONGS 
5obn  Bonne 

1573-1631 

AN  ELEGY  UPON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  LADY 
HABEHAJf 

(First  published  1633; 

Man  is  the  world,  and  death  the  ocean 

To  which  God  gives  the  lower  parts  of  man. 

This  sea  environs  all,  and  though  as  yet 

God  hath  set  marks  and  bounds  'twixt  us  and  it, 

Yet  doth  it  roar  and  gnaw,  and  still  pretend 

To  break  our  bank,  whene'er  it  takes  a  friend: 

Then  our  land-waters  (tears  of  passion)  vent; 

Our  waters  then  above  our  firmament — 

Tears,  which  our  soul  doth  for  her  sin  let  fall, — 

Take  all  a  brackish  taste,  and  funeral. 

And  even  those  tears,  which  should  wash  sin,  are 

sin. 

We,  after  God,  new  drown  our  world  again. 
Nothing  but  man  of  all  envenom'd  things, 
Doth  work  upon  itself  with  inborn  stings. 
Tears  are  false  spectacles;  we  cannot  see 
Through  passion's  mist,  what  we  are,  or  what  she. 
In  her  this  sea  of  death  hath  made  no  breach; 
But  as  the  tide  doth  wash  the  shining  beach, 
And  leaves  embroider'd  works  upon  the  sand, 
So  is  her  flesh  refin'd  by  Death's  cold  hand. 

88 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  SONGS  89 

As  men  of  China,  after  an  age's  stay, 

Do  take  up  porcelain,  where  they  buried  clay, 

So  at  this  grave,  her  limbec  (which  refines 

The    diamonds,    rubies,    sapphires,    pearls    and 

mines, 

Of  which  this  flesh  was)  her  soul  shall  inspire 
Flesh  of  such  stuff,  as  God,  when  His  last  fire 
Annuls  this  world,  to  recompense  it,  shall 
Make  and  name  them  th'  elixir  of  this  all. 
They  say  the  sea,  when  th'  earth  it  gains,  loseth 

too; 

If  carnal  Death,  the  younger  brother,  do 
Usurp  the  body;  our  soul,  which  subject  is 
To  th'  elder  Death  by  sin,  is  free  by  this ; 
They  perish  both,  when  they  attempt  the  just; 
For  graves  our  trophies  are,  and  both  Death's 

dust. 

So,  unobnoxious  now,  she  hath  buried  both; 
For  none  to  death  sins,  that  to  sin  is  loath, 
Nor  do  they  die,  which  are  not  loath  to  die; 
So  she  hath  this  and  that  virginity. 
Grace  was  in  her  extremely  diligent, 
That  kept  her  from  sin,  yet  made  her  repent. 
Of    what    small    spots    pure    white    complains! 

Alas! 

How  little  poison  cracks  a  crystal  glass ! 
She  sinn'd,  but  just  enough  to  let  us  see 
That  God's  word  must  be  true,— all  sinners  le. 
So  much  did  zeal  her  conscience  rarify, 
That  extreme  truth  lack'd  little  of  a  lie, 
Making  omissions  acts;  laying  the  touch 
Of  sin  on  things,  that  sometimes  may  be  such. 
As  Moses'  cherubims,  whose  natures  do 
Surpass  all  speed,  by  him  are  winged  too, 
So  would  her  soul,  already  in  heaven,  seem  then 
To  climb  by  tears  the  common  stairs  of  men. 
How  fit  she  was  for  God,  I  am  content 


90  SPENSER  TO  DEYDEN 

To  speak,  that  Death  his  vain  haste  may  repent; 
How  fit  for  us,  how  even  and  how  sweet, 
How  good  in  all  her  titles,  and  how  meet 
To  have  reform'd  this  forward  heresy, 
That  women  can  no  parts  of  friendship  be ; 
How  moral,  how  divine,  shall  not  be  told, 
Lest  they,  that  hear  her  virtues,  think  her  old: 
And  lest  we  take  Death's  part,  and  make  him  glad 
Of  such  a  prey,  and  to  his  triumphs  add. 


A  VALEDICTION  FORBIDDING  MOURNING 

(Sometimes  called  "  Upon  Parting  from  his  Mistris" 
written,  1612?) 

As  virtuous  men  pass  mildly  away, 
And  whisper  to  their  souls  to  go, 

Whilst  some  of  their  sad  friends  do  say, 

'  Now  his  breath  goes,'  and  some  say,  '  No ; ' 

So  let  us  melt,  and  make  no  noise, 
No  tear-floods,  nor  sigh-tempests  move; 

'Twere  profanation  of  our  joys, 
To  tell  the  laity  our  love. 

Moving  of  th'  earth  brings  harm  and  fears, 
Men  reckon  what  it  did,  and  meant ; 

But  trepidations  of  the  spheres, 
Though  greater  far,  are  innocent. 

Dull  sublunary  Lovers'  love, 

(Whose  soul  is  sense)  cannot  admit 

Absence;  for  that  it  doth  remove 
Those  things  which  elemented  it. 

But  we,  by  a  love  so  far  refin'd 

That  ourselves  know  not  what  it  is, 

Inter-assured  of  the  mind 

Careless  eyes,  lips,  and  hands,  to  miss. 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  SONGS         91 

Our  two  souls  therefore,  which  are  one, 

Though  I  must  go,  endure  not  yet 
A  breach,  but  an  expansion, 

Like  gold  to  airy  thinness  beat. 

If  they  be  two,  they  are  two  so 

As  stiff  twin  compasses  are  two; 
Thy  soul,  the  fixt  foot,  makes  no  show, 

To  move,  but  doth  if  th'  other  do. 

And  though  it  in  the  centre  sit, 

Yet  when  the  other  far  doth  roam, 
It  leans  and  harkens  after  it, 

And  grows  erect,  as  that  comes  home. 

Such  wilt  thou  be  to  me,  who  must 

Like  th'  other  foot,  obliquely  run; 
Thy  firmness  makes  my  circle  just, 

And  makes  me  end  where  I  begun. 


SONG 

(From  Poems,  with  Elegies  on  the  Author's  Death,  1633) 

Sweetest  Love,  I  do  not  go 

For  weariness  of  thee, 
Nor  in  hope  the  world  can  show 

A  fitter  Love  for  me; 

But  since  that  I 
Must  die  at  last,  'tis  best 
Thus  to  use  myself  in  jest, 

Thus  by  feigned  death  to  die. 

Yesternight  the  sun  went  hence, 

And  yet  is  here  to-day; 
He  hath  no  desire  nor  sense, 

Nor  half  so  short  a  way. 


92  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Then  fear  not  me; 
But  believe  that  I  shall  make 
Hastier  journeys,  since  I  take 
More  wings  and  spurs  than  he. 

O  how  feeble  is  man's  power, 

That,  if  good  fortune  fall, 
Cannot  add  another  hour, 

Nor  a  lost  hour  recall. 

But  come  bad  chance, 
And  we  join  to  it  our  strength, 
And  we  teach  it  art  and  length, 

Itself  o'er  us  t'  advance. 

When  thou  sigh'st,  thou  sigh'st  no  wind, 

But  sigh'st  my  soul  away; 
When  thou  weep'st,  unkindly  kind, 

My  life's-blood  doth  decay. 

It  cannot  be 

That  thou  lov'st  me  as  thou  say'st, 
If  in  thine  my  life  thou  waste 

That  art  the  best  of  me. 

Let  not  thy  divining  heart 

Forethink  me  any  ill; 
Destiny  may  take  thy  part 

And  may  thy  fears  fulfil; 

But  think  that  we 
Are  but  turned  aside  to  sleep: 
They,  who  one  another  keep 

Alive,  ne'er  parted  be. 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  SONGS  93 

A  HYMN  TO  GOD  THE  FATHER 
(First  published  1631) 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  where  I  begun, 
Which  was  my  sin,  though  it  were  done  before? 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin,  through  which  I  run 
And  do  run  still,  though  still  I  do  deplore  ? 

When  Thou  hast  done,  Thou  hast  not  done; 
For  I  have  more. 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  have  won 
Others  to  sin,  and  made  my  sins  their  door? 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  did  shun 
A  year  or  two,  but  wallow'd  in,  a  score  ? 

When  Thou  hast  done,  Thou  hast  not  done; 
For  I  have  more. 

I  have  a  sin  of  fear,  that  when  I  have  spun 
My  last  thread,  I  shall  perish  on  the  shore; 

But  swear  by  Thyself,  that  at  my  death  Thy  Son 
Shall  shine,  as  He  shines  now  and  heretofore: 

And  having  done  that,  Thou  hast  done; 
I  fear  no  more. 


iberbert 

1593-1633 

VERTUE 

(From  The  Temple,  1631) 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridall  of  the  earth  and  skie: 
'The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night; 
For  thou  must  die. 


94  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue  angrie  and  brave 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  musick  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  vertuous  soul, 
Like  season'd  timber,  never  gives; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives. 


THE  PULLEY 
(From  the  same) 

When  God  at  first  made  man, 
Having  a  glasse  of  blessings  standing  by, 
'  Let  us,'  said  He,  *  poure  on  him  all  we  can ; 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie, 

Contract  into  a  span.' 

So  strength  first  made  a  way; 
Then    beautie    flow'd,    then    wisdome,    honour, 

pleasure ; 

When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that,  alone  of  all  His  treasure, 

Rest  in  the  bottome  lay. 

'  For  if  I  should,'  said  He, 
'  Bestow  this  Jewell  also  on  My  creature, 
He  would  adore  My  gifts  in  stead  of  Me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature: 

So  both  should  losers  be. 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  SONGS         95 

Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessnesse : 
Let  him  be  rich  and  wearie,  that  at  least, 
If  goodnesse  leade  him  not,  yet  wearinesse 

May  tosse  him  to  my  breast.' 

THE  ELIXIR 
(From  the  same) 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King, 
In  all  things  Thee  to  see, 
And  what  I  do  in  anything 
To  do  it  as  for  Thee: 

Not  rudely,  as  a  beast, 
To  runne  into  an  action; 
But  still  to  make  Thee  prepossest, 
And  give  it  his  perfection. 

A  man  that  looks  on  glasse, 
On  it  may  stay  his  eye; 
Or  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  passe, 
And  then  the  heav'n  espie. 

All  may  of  Thee  partake: 
Nothing  can  be  so  mean, 
Which  with  his  tincture  '  for  Thy  sake,' 
Will  not  grow  bright  and  clean. 

A  servant  with  this  clause 
Makes  drudgerie  divine; 
Who  sweeps  a  room  as  for  Thy  laws, 
Makes  that  and  th'  action  fine. 

This  is  the  famous  stone 
That  turneth  all  to  gold; 
For  that  which  God  doth  touch  and  own 
Cannot  for  lesse  be  told. 


96  SPENSER  TO  DKYDEN 

THE  COLLAR 

(From  the  same) 

I  struck  the  board,  and  cry'd,  '  No  more ; 

I  will  abroad.' 

What,  shall  I  ever  sigh  and  pine  ? 
My  lines  and  life  are  free;  free  as  the  road, 
Loose  as  the  winde,  as  large  as  store. 

Shall  I  be  still  in  suit? 
Have  I  no  harvest  but  a  thorn 
To  let  me  bloud  and  not  restore 
What  I  have  lost  with  cordiall  fruit  ? 

Sure  there  was  wine, 
Before  my  sighs  did  drie  it ;  there  was  corn 

Before  my  tears  did  drown  it ; 
Is  the  yeare  onely  lost  to  me? 

Have  I  no  bayes  to  crown  it, 
No  flowers,  no  garlands  gay?  all  blasted, 

All  wasted? 
Not  so,  my  heart;  but  there  is  fruit, 

And  thou  hast  hands. 
Recover  all  thy  sigh-blown  age 
On  double  pleasures;  leave  thy  cold  dispute 
Of  what  is  fit  and  not ;  forsake  thy  cage, 

Thy  rope  of  sands 

Which  pettie  thoughts  have  made;  and  made  to  thee 
Good  cable,  to  enforce  and  draw, 

And  be  thy  law, 

While  thou  didst  wink  and  wouldst  not  see. 
Away !  take  heed ; 
I  will  abroad. 
Call  in  thy  death's-head  there,  tie  up  thy  fears; 

He  that  forbears 
To  suit  and  serve  his  need 

Deserves  his  load. 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY   SONGS  97 

But  as  I  raved  and  grew  more  fierce  and  wilde 

At  every  word, 

Methought  I  heard  one  calling,  '  Childe ' ; 
And  I  reply'd, '  My  Lord.' 


ftenrp  Dauaban 

1621-1695 

THE  RETREATE 
(From  Silex  Scintittans,  Part  I.,  1650) 

Happy  those  early  dayes,  when  I 
Shin'd  in  my  Angell-inf ancy ! 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  ought 
But  a  white,  celestiall  thought; 
When  yet  I  had  not  walkt  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  Love, 
And  looking  back,  at  that  short  space, 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright  face ; 
When  on  some  gilded  Cloud  or  Flowre 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  houre, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity; 
Before  I  fought  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinfull  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispence 
A  sev'rall  sinne  to  ev'ry  sense, 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dresse 
Bright  shootes  of  everlastingnesse. 

O  how  I  long  to  travell  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plaine, 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  traine; 


98  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

From  whence  th'  inlightened  spirit  sees 
That  shady  City  of  Palme  trees. 
But  ah !  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way ! 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move; 
And,  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 


DEPARTED  FRIENDS 
(From  Silex  Scintillans,  Part  II.,  1655) 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light  1 

And  I  alone  sit  ling'ring  here! 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  brest 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 

Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  drest 
After  the  Sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory 
Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days; 

My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Meer  glimmerings  and  decays. 

O  holy  Hope!  and  high  Humility! 

High  as  the  Heavens  above; 
These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  shew'd  them 
me 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  Death ;  the  Jewel  of  the  Just ! 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark; 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark! 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  SONGS  99 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledg'd  bird's  nest  ma;v 
knov»- 

At  first  sight  if  the  bird  be  flown; 
But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 

That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  Angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 
Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 

So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted 

theams 
And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confin'd  into  a  tomb, 
Her  captive  flames  must  needs  burn  there; 

But  when  the  hand  that  lockt  her  up  gives  room, 
She'll  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

Created  glories  under  thee! 
Kesume  thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 

Into  true  liberty! 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fill 

My  perspective  still  as  they  pass; 
Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill 

Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 


1588-166? 
THE  AUTHOR'S  RESOLUTION  IN  A  SONNET 

(From  Fidelia,  1615) 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despaire 
Dye,  because  a  woman's  fair? 
Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care 
Cause  anothers  Eosie  are? 


100  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  Day 
Or  the  Howry  Meads  in  May, 
If  she  thinke  not  well  of  me, 
What  care  I  how  faire  she  be? 

Shall  my  seely  heart  be  pin'd 
Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind? 
Or  a  well  disposed  Nature 
Joyned  with  a  lovely  feature? 

Be  she  Meeker,  Kinder  than 

Turtle-dove  or  Pellican: 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 

What  care  I  how  kind  she  be? 

Shall  a  woman's  Vertues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  Love? 
Or  her  wel  deservings  knowne 
Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own? 
Be  she  with  that  Goodness  blest 
Which  may  merit  name  of  best : 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  Good  she  be  ? 

Cause  her  Fortune  seems  too  high 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die? 
She  that  beares  a  Noble  mind, 
If  not  outward  helpes  she  find, 
Thinks  what  with  them  he  wold  do, 
That  without  them  dares  her  woe. 
And  unlesse  that  Minde  I  see 
What  care  I  how  great  she  be? 

Great,  or  Good,  or  Kind,  or  Faire 
I  will  ne're  the  more  despaire: 
If  she  love  me  (this  beleeve) 
I  will  Die  ere  she  shall  grieve. 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  SONGS  101 

If  she  slight  me  when  I  woe, 
I  can  scorne  and  let  her  goe, 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? 

Hbrabam  Cowles 

1618-1667 
A  VOTE 

(From  Poetical  Blossoms,  second  ed.,  1636) 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  lie 
Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  high. 

Some  honour  I  would  have, 
Not  from  great  deeds,  but  good  alone; 
The  unknown  are  better  than  ill  known: 

Rumour  can  ope  the  grave. 

Acquaintance  I  would  have,  but  when  't  depends 
Not  on  the  number,  but  the  choice  of  friends. 

Books  should,  not  business,  entertain  the  light, 
And  sleep,  as  undisturb'd  as  death,  the  night. 

My  house  a  cottage  more 
Than  palace,  and  should  fitting  be 
For  all  my  use,  no  luxury. 

My  garden  painted  o'er 
With   nature's   hand,   not   art's;    and   pleasures 

yield, 
Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

Thus  would  I  double  my  life's  fading  space, 
For  he  that  runs  it  well,  twice  runs  his  race. 

And  in  this  true  delight, 
These  unbought  sports,  this  happy  state, 
I  would  nor  fear,  nor  wish  my  fate, 

But  boldly  say  each  night, 
To-morrow  let  my  sun  his  beams  display, 
Or  in  clouds  hide  them,  I  have  liv'd  to-day. 


102  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

THE  GRASSHOPPER 

(From  Miscellanies,  1650) 

Happy  Insect  what  can  be 

In  happiness  compar'd  to  thee? 

Fed  with  nourishment  divine, 

The  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine! 

Nature  waits  upon  thee  still, 

And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill. 

'Tis  fill'd  where  ever  thou  dost  tread, 

Nature  selfe's  thy  Ganimed. 

Thou  dost  drink,  and  dance,  and  sing  5 

Happier  than  the  happiest  King! 

All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 

All  the  plants  belong  to  thee, 

All  that  summer  hours  produce, 

Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 

Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plow; 

Farmer  he  and  land-lord  thou! 

Thou  doest  innocently  joy; 

Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy; 

The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 

More  harmonious  than  he. 

Thee  country  hindes  with  gladness  hear, 

Prophet  of  the  ripened  year! 

Thee  Phoebus  loves,  and  does  inspire; 

Phoebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 

To  thee  of  all  things  upon  earth, 

Life  is  no  longer  than  thy  mirth, 

Happy  insect,  happy  thou, 

Dost  neither  age,  nor  winter  know, 

But  when  thou'st  drunk,  and  danced,  and  sung, 

Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among 

(Voluptuous,  and  wise  with  all, 

Epicurean  animal!) 

Sated  with  thy  summer  feast, 

Thou  retir'st  to  endless  rest. 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTUitY  SONGS  103 

3ames  Sbirlep 

1596-1667 

A  DIRGE 

(From  The  Contention  of  Ajax  and  Ulysses,  1659) 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things; 
There  is  no  armour  against  fate; 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings: 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still: 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 

And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath, 
When  they,  poor  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow, 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See,  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds : 
Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb, 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 


104  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Ubomas  Carew 

1589-1639 

DISDAIN  RETURNED 

(Printed,  without  concluding  stanza,  in  Porter's  Madrigalles 
and  Ayrei,  1632) 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek, 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires; 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires, 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 
Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires, 

Hearts,  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires; 

Where  these  art  not,  I  despise 

Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 

No  tears,  Celia,  now  shall  win, 

My  resolved  heart  to  Teturn ; 
I  have  searched  thy  soul  within 

And  find  nought  but  pride  and  scorn; 
I  have  learned  thy  arts,  and  now 
Can  disdain  as  much  as  thou ! 

Sir  3obn  Sucfelfna 

1609-1641 

ORSAMES'  SONG. 
(From  <Aglaura,  acted  1637) 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  SONGS  105 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do't? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame,  this  will  not  move: 

This  cannot  take  her. 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her : 

The  devil  take  her ! 


IRfcbarfc  Xovelace 

1618-1658 

TO  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING  TO  THE  WARS 
(From  Lucasta,   1649) 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field, 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you,  too,  shall  adore, — 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  honour  more. 


106  SPENSER  TO  DttYDEN 

TO  ALTHEA  FROM  PRISON 

(From  the  same) 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair, 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

WTith  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  Avith  roses  bound, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free. 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  like  committed  linnets,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  King; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud,  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged  winds  that  curl  the  flood 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Xor  iron  bars  a  cage; 
Hinds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage; 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  SONGS    •  107 

If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


IRobert  IberricM 

1591-1674 

ARGUMENT  TO  HESPERIDE8 

(From  Hesperides,  1648) 

I  sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds,  and  bowers, 

Of  April,  May,  of  June  and  July -flowers; 

I  sing  of  May-poles,  hock-carts,  wassails,  wakes, 

Of  bride-grooms,  brides,  and  of  their  bridal-cakes ; 

I  write  of  youth,  of  love,  and  have  access 

By  these  to  sing  of  cleanly  wantonness ; 

I  sing  of  dews,  of  rains,  and,  piece  by  piece 

Of  balm,  of  oil,  of  spice  and  ambergris ; 

I  sing  of  times  trans-shifting,  and  I  write 

How  roses  first  came  red  and  lilies  white; 

I  write  of  groves,  of  twilights,  and  I  sing 

The  Court  of  Mab,  and  of  the  fairy  king; 

I  write  of  hell;  I  sing,  (and  ever  shall) 

Of  heaven,  and  hope  to  have  it  after  alK 

CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING 

(From  the  same) 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  a-ir: 
Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 


108  SPENSER  TO  DBYDEN 

Each  flower  has  wept  and  bow'd  toward  the  east 
Above  an  hour  since:  yet  you  not  dress'd; 

Nay!  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed? 

When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said 

And  sung  their  thankful  hymns,  'tis  sin, 

Nay,  profanation  to  keep  in, 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 

Rise  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 

To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time,  fresh  and 

green, 

And  sweet  as  Flora.    Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair; 
Fear  not;  the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you : 

Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept. 

Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept; 
Come  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night: 
And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 
Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 

Till  you  come  forth.    Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in 
praying : 

Few  beads  are  best  when  once  we  go  a-Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come;  and,  coming,  mark 

How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street  a  park 
Made  green  and  trimm'd  with  trees;  see  how 
Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or  branch:  each  porch,  each  door  ere  this 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 

Made  up  of  white-thorn  neatly  interwove; 

As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 
And  open  fields  and  we  not  see  't? 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  SONGS  109 

Come,  we'll  abroad;  and  let's  obey 

The  proclamation  made  for  May; 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 

A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 

Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 

Some  have  dispatched  their  cakes  and  cream, 

Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream : 
And  some  have  wept,  and  woo'd,  and  plighted 

troth, 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth: 

Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given; 

Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even : 
»  Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 

From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament; 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying 
This    night,    and    locks   pick'd,    yet   we're   not 
a-Maying. 

Come,  let  us  go  whjle  we  are  in  our  prime; 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time. 

We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty. 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 

As  far  away  as  dbes  the  sun: 
And,  as  a  vapour  or  a  drop  of  rain 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again, 

So  when  you  or  I  are  made 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 

Lies  drowned  with  us  in  .endless  night. 
Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 


110  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

TO  PRIMROSES  FILLED  WITH  MORNING  DEW 

(From  the  same) 

Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes?  can  tears 
Speak  grief  in  you, 
Who  were  but  born 
Just  as  the  modest  morn 
Teem'd  her  refreshing  dew  ? 
Alas!  you  have  not  known  that  shower 
That  mars  a  flower, 
Nor  felt  th'  unkind 
Breath  of  a  blasting  wind, 
Nor  are  ye  worn  with  years, 
Or  warp'd  as  we, 
Who  think  it  strange  to  see 
Such  pretty  flowers,  like  to  orphans  young, 
To  speak  by  tears,  before  ye  have  a  tongue. 

Speak,  whimp'ring  younglings,  and  make  known 
The  reason  why 
Ye  droop  and  weep; 
Is  it  for  want  of  sleep? 
Or  childish  lullaby? 
Or  that  ye  have  not  seen  as  yet 
The  violet? 
Or  brought  a  kiss 
From  that  sweetheart  to  this? 
No,  no,  this  sorrow  shown 

By  your  tears  shed 
Would  have  this  lecture  read: 
That  things  of  greatest,  so  of  meanest  worth, 
Conceiv'd  with  grief  are,  and  with  tears  brought  forth. 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  SONGS  111 

TO  THE  VIRGINS,  TO  MAKE  MUCH  OF  TIME 

(From  the  same) 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 

Old  time  is  still  a-flying: 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 
To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  Sun, 

The  higher  he's  a-getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse,  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 

And  while  ye  may  go  marry: 
For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime 

You  may  forever  tarry. 

TO  DAFFODILS 
(From  the  same) 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon; 
As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 

Has  not  attain'd  his  noon. 
Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hasting  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  evensong; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along. 


112  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 

As  you,  or  anything. 
We  die, 

As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 
Away, 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 

Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

THE  HAG 

(From  the  same) 

The  hag  is  astride 

This  night  for  to  ride, 
The  devil  and  she  together; 

Through  thick  and  through  thin, 

Now  out  and  then  in, 
Though  ne'er  so  foul  be  the  weather. 

A  thorn  or  a  burr 

She  takes  for  a  spur, 
With  a  lash  of  a  bramble  she  rides  now; 

Through  brakes  and  through  briars, 

O'er  ditches  and  mires, 
She  follows  the  spirit  that  guides  now. 

No  beast  for  his  food 

Dare  now  range  the  wood, 
But  hush'd  in  his  lair  he  lies  lurking; 

While  mischiefs,  by  these, 

On  land  and  on  seas, 
At  noon  of  night  are  a-working. 

The  storm  will  arise 
And  trouble  the  skies; 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTUEY  SONGS  113 

This  night,  and  more  for  the  wonder, 

The  ghost  from  the  tomb 

Affrighted  shall  come, 
Call'd  out  by  the  clap  of  the  thunder. 


Waller 

1605-1687 

ON  A  GIRDLE 

(From  Poems,  1G45) 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confin'd, 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind; 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown, 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

It  was  my  heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer, 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 

A  narrow  compass,  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair: 
Give  me  btit  what  this  riband  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round. 

SONG 
(From  the  same) 

Go,  lovely  Rose, 

Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows 

When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 

How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that's  young, 

And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  had'st  thou  sprung 

In  deserts  where  no  men  abide, 

Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 


114  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Small  is  the  worth 

Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired; 

Bid  her  come  forth, 

Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 

And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die,  that  she 

The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee ; 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share, 

That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair. 

ON  THE  FOREGOING  DIVINE  POEMS 

(1686  ?) 

When  we  for  age  could  neither  read  nor  write, 
The  subject  made  us  able  to  indite. 
The  soul,  with  nobler  resolutions  deckt, 
The  body  stooping,  does  herself  erect : 
No  mortal  parts  are  requisite  to  raise 
Her,  that  unbody'd  can  her  Maker  praise. 
The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  give  o'er: 
So,  calm  are  we,  when  passions  are  no  more: 
For,  then  we  know  how  vain  it  was  to  boast 
Of  fleeting  things,  so  certain  to  be  lost. 
Clouds  of  affection  from  our  younger  eyes 
Conceal  that  emptiness,  which  age  descries. 

The  soul's  dark  cottage,  batter'd  and  decay'd, 
Lets   in  new  light,  thro'  chinks  that   time  has 

made: 

Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser,  men  become, 
As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home. 
Leaving  the  old,  both  Worlds  at  once  they  view, 
That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new. 


JOHN  MILTON 
5obn  /IDilton 

1608-1674 

L'ALLEGRO 

(1634) 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born 

In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,   and  sights 

unholy ! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell, 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous 

wings, 
And  the  night-raven  sings; 

There,  under  ebon  shades  and  low-browed  rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 

But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free, 
In  heaven  ycleped  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men  heart-easing  Mirth; 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth, 
With  two  sister  Graces  more, 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore : 
Or  whether  (as  some  sager  sing) 
The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring, 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing, 
As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying, 
There,  on  beds  of  violets  blue, 
And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 

115 


116  SPENSER  TO  DEYDEN 

Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek; 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it,  as  you  go, 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe; 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 
And,  if  I  give  thee  honour  due, 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free; 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 
And,  singing,  startle  the  dull  night, 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise; 
Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow, 
Through  the  sweet-briar,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine; 
While  the  cock,  with  lively  din. 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin ; 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before : 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill : 
Some  time  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedgerow  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate 


JOHN  MILTON  11 

Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state 
Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight; 
While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand, 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land, 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures. 
Whilst  the  landskip  round  it  measures : 
Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray; 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest; 
Meadows  trim,  with  daisies  pied, 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide; 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 
Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 
The  cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes. 

Hard  by   a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Oorydon  and  Thyrsis  met, 
Are  at  their  savoury  dinner  set 
Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes, 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 
To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead. 

Sometimes,  with  secure  delight, 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid 
Dancing  in  the  checkered  shade, 


118  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sunshine  holyday, 

Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail : 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 

How  Faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat. 

She  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said; 

And  he,  by  Friar's  lantern  led, 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 

His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn 

That  ten  day-labourers  could  not  end; 

Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 

And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength, 

And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 

Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 

Towered  cities  please  us  then, 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold, 
In  weeds  of  peace,  high  triumphs  hold, 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 
With  mask  and  antique  pageantry; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 


JOHN  MILTON  119 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares, 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 
Married  to  immortal  verse, 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 
With  wanton  hoed  and  giddy  cunning, 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony; 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 
From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 
Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-regained  Eurydice. 
These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


IL  PENSEROSO 

(1634) 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 
The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred! 
How  little  you  bested, 

Or.  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys ! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess, 
As  thick  and  numberless 
As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sun-beams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 
But,  hail !  thou  Goddess  sage  and  holy, 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 


120  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 

O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue; 

Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 

Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem, 

Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 

To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 

The  Sea-Nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended. 

Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended : 

Thee  bright-haired  Vesta  long  of  yore 

To  solitary  Saturn  bore; 

His  daughter  she;  in  Saturn's  reign 

Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain. 

Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 

He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 

Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 

Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 
And  sable  stole  of  cypress  lawn 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 
Come;  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 
With  even  step,  and  musing  gait, 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes : 
There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 
And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace  and  Quiet, 
Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing; 
And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure; 
But,  first  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 


JOHN  MILTON  121 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 

The  Cherub  Contemplation; 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song, 

In  her  sweetest  saddest  plight, 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 

Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak. 

Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly. 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy! 

Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among 

I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song; 

And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon, 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way, 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound, 
Over  some  wide-watered  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar; 
Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 
Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom, 
Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 
Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 
To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp,  at  midnight  hour, 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 
Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear, 
With  thrice  great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 


122  SPENSER  TO  DBYDEN 

The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook; 
And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  underground, 
Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet  or  with  element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine, 
Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin !  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musams  from  his  bower; 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek, 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek; 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife, 
That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass, 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride; 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 
Of  turneys,  and  of  trophies  hung, 
Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear, 
Not  tricked  and  frounced,  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 
But  kercheft  in  a  comely  cloud, 


JOHN  MILTON  123 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 

Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still, 

When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 

Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves, 

With  minute-drops  from  off  the  eaves. 

And,  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 

His  flaring  beams,  me,  Goddess,  bring 

To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 

And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 

Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak, 

Where  the  rude  axe  with  heaved  stroke 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt, 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 

There,  in  close  covert,  by  some  brook, 

WThere  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 

While  the  bee  with  honied  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowry  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring, 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep, 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  Sleep. 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings,  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid; 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  Spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 
And  love  the  high  embowed  roof. 
With  antique  pillars  massy-proof, 
And  storied  windows  richly  dight, 
Casting  a" dim  religious  light. 
There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 
To  the  full-voiced  quire  below, 


124  SPENSER  TO  DBYDEN 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear, 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 

Dissolve  me  into  esctasies, 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew, 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give; 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

SONG.    SWEET  ECHO 
(From  Comus,  acted  1634) 

Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  liv'st  unseen 

Within  thy  airy  shell, 
By  slow  Meander's  margent  green, 
And  in  the  violet-embroidered  vale 

Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well: 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are? 

O,  if  thou  have 
Hid  them  in  some  flowery  cave, 

Tell  me  but  where, 
Sweet    Queen    of    Parley,    Daughter    of    the 

Sphere ! 

So  may'st  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies, 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  heaven's  har- 
monies. 


JOHN  MILTON  125 


SONG.     SABRINA  FAIR 
(From  the  Same) 

Sabrina  fair, 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair; 

Listen  for  dear  honour's  sake, 

Goddess  of  the  silver  lake, 

Listen  and  save! 
Listen,  and  appear  to  us, 
In  name  of  great  Oceanus. 
By  the  earth-shaking  Neptune's  mace, 
And  Tethys'  grave  majestic  pace; 
By  hoary  Nereus'  wrinkled  look, 
And  the  Carpathian  wizard's  hook; 
By  scaly  Triton's  winding  shell, 
And  old  soothsaying  Glaucus'  spell; 
By  Leucothea's  lovely  hands, 
And  her  son  that  rules  the  strands; 
By  Thetis'  tinsel-slippered  feet, 
And  the  songs  of  Sirens  sweet; 
By  dead  Parthenope's  dear  tomb, 
And  fair  Ligea's  golden  comb, 
Wherewith  she  sits  on  diamond  rocks 
Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks; 
By  all  the  Nymphs  that  nightly  dance 
Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance; 
Rise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosy  head 
From  thy  coral-paven  bed, 
And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave, 
Till  thou  our  summons  answered  have. 

Listen  and  save! 


126  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

LYCIDAS 

(1638) 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more, 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year, 
Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due; 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas?     He  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin,  then,  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse: 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favour  my  destined  urn, 
And  as  he  passes  turn, 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud ! 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self -same  hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill; 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night, 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright 
Toward  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  westering 

wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute; 


JOHN  MILTON  12*7 

Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute, 

Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long ; 
And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But,  oh !  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone  and  never  must  return! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves, 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn. 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 
Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 
Or  frost  to  flowers  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear, 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 

Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless 

deep 

Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream. 
Ay  me !  I  fondly  dream 
"Had  ye  been  there,"  .  .  .  for  what  could  that 

have  done? 

What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore, 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament, 
When,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar, 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore? 

Alas!  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
To  tend  the  homoly,  slighted,  shepherd's  trade, 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 


128  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 

Or  with  the  tangles  of  Nesera's  hair  ? 

Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 

(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 

To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days; 

But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 

And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 

Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears, 

And    slits    the    thin-spun    life.     "  But    not  "  the 

praise," 

Phoebus  replied,  and  touched   my  trembling  ears : 
"  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 
Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies, 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove: 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 
Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed." 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honoured  flood, 
Smooth-sliding    Mincius,    crowned    with    vocal 

reeds, 

That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood. 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  Herald  of  the  Sea, 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea. 
He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon  winds, 
What    hard    mishap    hath    doomed    this    gentle 

swain  ? 

And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory. 
They  knew  not  of  his  story; 
And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings, 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed: 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark, 
Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark, 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 


JOHN  MILTON  129 

Next,  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge, 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe. 
"Ah!   who   hath  reft,"   quoth  he,   "my   dearest 

pledge?" 

Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 
The  Pilot  of  the  Galilean  Lake; 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain.) 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake: — 
"How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young 

swain, 

Enow  of  such  as,  for  their  bellies'  sake, 
Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold ! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 
Blind  mouths !  that  scarce  themselves  know  how 

to  hold 
A    sheep-hook,    or   have    learnt    aught    else    the 

least 

That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs ! 
What  recks  it  them?    What  need  they?     They 

are  sped; 

And,  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw; 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed, 
But,  swoln  with  wind  and'  the  rank  mist  they 

draw, 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread; 
Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw, 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said. 
But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more." 

Return,  Alpheus;  the  dread  voice  is  past 
That  shrunk  thy  streams;  return  Sicilian  Muse, 


130  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing 

brooks, 

On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  sparely  looks, 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes, 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed  showers, 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet, 
The  glowing  violet, 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine, 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 
And  every 'flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears; 
Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 
And  daffadillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 
To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 
For  so,  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 
Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise, 
Ay  me!  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 
Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurled; 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming  tide 
Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world; 
Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 
Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 
Where  the  great  Vision  of  the  guarded  mount 
Looks  toward  Xamancos  and  Bayona's  hold. 
Look  homeward.  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth : 
And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep  no  more, 
For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead, 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor. 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 


JOHN  MILTON  131 

And  tricks   his   beams,   and  with  new-spangled 

ore 

Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walked  the 

waves, 

Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song, 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above, 
In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies, 
That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,the  shepherds  weep  no  more; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  genius  of  the  shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and.shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and 

rills, 

While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals  gray : 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay: 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay. 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue: 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods,  and  pastures  new. 

SONNET 

ON  HIS  HAVING  ARRIVED  AT  THE  AGE  OP  TWENTY-THREE 
(1631) 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth, 
Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twentieth  year! 
My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career, 
But  my  late  spring  no  bud  nor  blossom  shew'th. 


132  SPENSER  TO  DRYDEN 

Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the  truth 
That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near; 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  appear, 
That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits  endu'th. 

Yet,  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow, 
It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high. 

Towards  which  Time  leads  me,  and  the  will  of  Heaven. 
All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so, 
As  ever  in  my  great  Task-Master's  eye. 

SONNET 

ON  THE  LATE  MASSACRE,  IN  PIEDMONT 
(1655) 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshiped  stocks  and  stones, 

Forget  not:  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese,  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their  means 

The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 

The  triple  Tyrant;  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundredfold  who,  having  learnt  thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

SONNET 

ON    HIS   BLINDNESS 

(From  Poems,  etc.,  1673.     Written  dr.  1655  ?) 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 


JOHN  MILTON  133 

Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more 

bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 

My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide; 

"  Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied  ? " 

I  fondly  ask.     But  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "  God  doth  not  need 

Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts.     Who  best 

Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best.    His 

state 
Is  kingly:  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 

And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest; 

They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

SONNET 

TO   CYRIACK   SKINNER 

(First  printed  in  Phillips'  Life  of  Milton,  1694.    Written  dr. 
1655) 

Cyriack,  this  three  years'  day  these  eyes,  though 

clear, 

To  outward  view,  of  blemish  or  of  spot, 
Bereft  of  light,  their  seeing  have  forgot; 
Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth  sight  appear 
Of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star,  throughout  the  year, 
Or  man,  or  woman.     Yet  I  argue  not 
Against  Heaven's  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a  jot 
Of  heart  or  hope,  but  still  bear  up  and  steer 
Right   onward.    What   supports   me,   dost   thou 

ask? 

The  conscience,  friend,  to  have  lost  them  over- 
plied 

In  Liberty's  defence,  my  noble  task, 
Of  which  all  Europe  rings  from  side  to  side. 
This  thought  might  lead  me  through  the  world's 

vain  mask, 
Content,  though  blind,  had  I  no  better  guide. 


Hnftrew 

1621-1678 
THE  GARDEN 

(Written  dr.  1650,  published  first  in  first  collected  edition 
of  Marvell's  Poems,  1681) 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze, 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays, 
And  their  incessant  labours  see 
Crowned  from  some  single  herb,  or  tree, 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid, 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close, 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose ! 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men. 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow; 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 
Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 
Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name, 
Little,  alas!  they  know  or  heed, 
How  far  these  beauties  her  exceed! 
Fair  trees!  where'er  your  barks  1  wound, 
No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 

134 


ANDEEW  MABVELL  135 

When  we  have  run  our  passion's  heat, 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat. 
The  gods,  who  mortal  beauty  chase, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race; 
Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so, 
Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow; 
And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed, 
Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead ! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  a  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine; 
The  nectarine,  and  curious  peach, 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Ensnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 


Meanwhile  the  mind,  from  pleasure  less, 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness; — 
The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 
Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find; 
Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 
Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas, 
Annihilating  all   that's   made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 


Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside, 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide: 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plume  the  various  light. 


136  SPENSER  TO   DRYDEN 

Such  was  that  happy  garden-state, 
While  man  there  walked  without  a  mate: 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet! 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there: 
Two  paradises  are  in  one, 
To  live  in  paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers,  and  herbs,  this  dial  new, 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run,  • 
And,  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we! 
How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
Be  reckoned  but  with  herbs  and  flowers? 


PART   THIRD 

DRYDEN  TO   THOMSON 

Cir.  1660— CM-.  1730 

3obn  2>r^en 

1631-1700 

MAC-FLECKNOE  ;   OR.   A   SATIRE    ON    THE    TRUE 
BLUE  PROTESTANT  POET,  T.  S. 

(1682) 

ALL  human  things  are  subject  to  decay, 
And,  when  fate  summons,  monarchs  must  obey. 
This  Flecknoe  found,  who,  like  Augustus,  young 
Was  called  to  empire,  and  had  governed  long; 
In  prose  and  verse  was  owned,  without  dispute, 
Through  all  the  realms  of  Nonsense,  absolute. 
This  aged  prince,  now  flourishing  in  peace, 
And  blest  with  issue  of  a  large  increase, 
Worn  out  with  business,  did  at  length  debate 
To  settle  the  succession  of  the  state; 
And,  pondering  which  of  all  his  sons  was  fit 
To  reign,  and  wage  immortal  war  with  wit, 
Cried,  "  'Tis  resolved !  for  Nature  pleads,  that  he 
Should  only  rule,  who  most  resembles  me. 
Shadwell  alone  my  perfect  image  bears, 
Mature  in  dulness  from  his  tender  years; 
Shadwell  alone,  of  all  my  sons,  is  he, 

137 


138  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

Who  stands  confirmed  in  full  stupidity. 

The  rest  to  some  faint  meaning  make  pretence, 

But  Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense; 

Some  beams  of  wit  on  other  souls  may  fall, 

Strike  through,  and  make  a  lucid  interval; 

But  Shadwell's  genuine  night  admits  no  ray, 

His  rising  fogs  prevail  upon  the  day. 

Besides,  his  goodly  fabric  fills  the  eye, 

And  seems  designed  for  thoughtless  majesty; 

Thoughtless    as   monarch   oaks,   that   shade   the 

plain, 

And,  spread  in  solemn  state,  supinely  reign. 
Heywood  and  Shirley  were  but  types  of  thee, 
Thou  last  great  prophet  of  tautology.! 
Even  I,  a  dunce  of  more  renown  than  they, 
Was  sent  before  but  to  prepare  thy  way; 
And,  coarsely  clad  in  Norwich  drugget,  came 
To  teach  the  nations  in  thy  greater  name. 
My  warbling  lute, — the  lute  I  whilom  strung, 
When  to  King  John  of  Portugal  I  sung, — 
Was  but  the  prelude  to  that  glorious  day, 
When  thou  on  silver  Thames  didst  cut  thy  way 
With  well-timed  oars,  before  the  royal  barge, 
Swelled  with  the  pride  of  thy  celestial  charge; 
And  big  with  hymn,  commander  of  an  host, — 
The  like  was  ne'er  in  Epsom  blankets  tost. 
Methinks  I  see  the  new  Arion  sail, 
The  lute  still  trembling  underneath  thy  nail. 
At    thy    well-sharpened    thumb,    from    shore    to 

shore, 
The  trebles  squeak  for  fear,  the  basses  roar; 


About  thy  boat  the  little  fishes  throng, 
As  at  the  morning  toast  that  floats  along. 
Sometimes,  as  prince  of  thy  harmonious  band, 
Thou  wield'st  thy  papers  in  thy  threshing  hand; 


JOHN  DRYDEN  139 

St.  Andre's  feet  ne'er  kept  more  equal  time, 
Not  even  the  feet  of  thy  own  Psyche's  rhyme: 
Though  they  in  number  as  in  sense  excel; 
So  just,  so  like  tautology,  they  fell, 
That,  pale  with  envy,  Singleton  forswore 
The  lute  and  sword,  which,  he  in  triumph  bore, 
And  vowed  he  ne'er  would  act  Villerius  more." 

Here  stopt  the  good  old  sire  and  wept  for  joy, 
In  silent  raptures  of  the  hopeful  boy. 
All  arguments,  but  most  his  plays,  persuade, 
That  for  anointed  dulness  he  was  made. 

Close  to  the  walls  which  fair  Augusta  bind, 
(The  fair  Augusta  much  to  fears  inclined), 
An  ancient  fabric  raised  to  inform  the  sight, 
There  stood  of  yore,  and  Barbican  it  hight; 
A  watch-tower  once,  but  now,  so  fate  ordains, 
Of  all  the  pile  an  empty  name  remains; 


Near  it  a  Nursery  erects  its  head, 

Where  queens  are  formed  and  future  heroes  bred, 

Where  unfledged  actors  learn  to  laugh  and  cry, 

And  little  JVIaximins  the  gods  defy. 
Great  Fletcher  never  treads  in  buskins  here, 
Nor  greater  Jonson  dares  in  socks  appear; 
But  gentle  Simkin  just  reception  finds 
Amidst  this  monument  of  vanished  minds; 
Pure  clinches  the  suburban  muse  affords. 
And  Panton  waging  harmless  war  with  words. 
Here  Flecknoe,  as  a  place  to  fame  well  known, 
Ambitiously  designed  his  Shadwell's  throne. 
For  ancient  Docker  prophesied  long  since. 
That  in  this  pile  should  reign  a  mighty  prince, 
Born  for  a  scourge  of  wit,  and  flail  of  sense ; 
To  whom  true  dulness  should  some  Psyches  owe, 


140  DRYDEN   TO  THOMSON 

But  worlds  of  Misers- from  his  pen  should  flow ; 
Humorists  and  Hypocrites,  it  should  produce, — 
Whole  Kaymond  families,  and  tribes  of  Bruce. 

Now  empress  Fame  had  published  the  renown 
Of  Shadwell's  coronation  through  the  town. 
Roused  by  report  of  fame,  the  nations  meet, 
From  near  Bunhill,  and  distant  Watling  Street. 
No  Persian  carpets  spread  the  imperial  way, 
But  scattered  limbs  of  mangled  poets  lay. 


Much  Heywood,  Shirley,  Ogleby  there  lay, 
But  loads  of  Shadwell  almost  choked  the  way; 
Bilked  stationers  for  yeomen  stood  prepared, 
And  Herringman  was  captain  of  the  guard. 
The  hoary  prince  in  majesty  appeared, 
High  on  a  throne  of  his  own  labours  reared. 
At  his  right  hand  our  young  Ascanius  sate, 
Rome's  other  hope,  and  pillar  of  the  state. 
His  brows  thick  fogs,  instead  of  glories,  grace, 
And  lambent  dulness  played  around  his  face. 
As  Hannibal  did  to  the  altars  come, 
Sworn  by  his  sire,  a  mortal  foe  to  Rome, 
So  Shadwell  swore,  nor  should  his  vow  be  vain. 
That  he  till  death  true  dulness  would  maintain; 
And,  in  his  father's  right,  and  realm's  defence, 
Ne'er  to  have  peace  with  wit,  nor  truce  with 

sense. 

The  king  himself  the  sacred  unction  made, 
As  king  by  office,  and  as  priest  by  trade. 
In  his  sinister  hand,  instead  of  ball, 
He  placed  a  mighty  mug  of  potent  ale; 
"  Love's  kingdom  "  to  his  right  he  did  convey, 
At  once  his  sceptre,  and  his  rule  of  sway; 
Whose  righteous  lore  the  prince  had  practised 

young, 
And  from  whose  loins  recorded  Psyche  sprung. 


JOHN  DEYDEN  141 

His  temples,  last,  with  poppies  were  o'erspread, 
That  nodding  seemed  to  consecrate  his  head. 
Just  at  the  point  of  time,  if  fame  not  lie, 
On  his  left  hand  twelve  reverend  owls  did  fly; 
So  Eomulus,  'tis  sung,  by  Tiber's  brook, 
Presage  of  sway  from  twice  six  vultures  took. 
The  admiring  throng  loud  acclamations  make, 
And  omens  of  his  future  empire  take. 
The  sire  then  shook  the  honours  of  his  head, 
And  from  his  brows  damps  of  oblivion  shed 
Full  on  the  filial  dulness :  long  he  stood, 
Kepelling  from  his  breast  the  raging  god; 
At  length  burst  out  in  this  prophetic  mood: — 
"  Heavens  bless  my  son !  from  Ireland  let  him 

reign, 

To  far  Barbadoes  on  the  western  main; 
Of  his  dominion  may  no  end  be  known, 
And  greater  than  his  father's  be  his  throne; 
Beyond  love's  kingdom  let  him  stretch  his  pen!" 
He  paused,  and  all  the  people  cried,  "  Amen." 
Then  thus  continued  he :  "  My  son,  advance 
Still  in  new  impudence,  new  ignorance. 
Success  let  others  teach,  learn  thou  from  me 
Pangs  without  birth,  and  fruitless  industry. 
Let  Virtuosos  in  five  years  be  writ, 
Yet  not  one  thought  accuse  thy  toil  of  wit. 
Let  gentle  George  in  triumph  tread  the  stage, 
Make  Dorimant  betray,  and  Loveit  rage; 
Let  Cully,  Cockwood,  Fopling,  charm  the  pit, 
And  in  their  folly  show  the  writer's  wit; 
Yet  still  thy  fools  shall  stand  in  thy  defence, 
And  justify  their  author's  want  of  sense. 
Let  them  be  all  by  thy  own  model  made 
Of  dulness,  and  desire  no  foreign  aid, 
That  they  to  future  ages  may  be  known, 
Not  copies  drawn,  but  issue  of  thy  own: 
Nay,  let  thy  men  of  wit  too  be  the  same, 


142  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

All  full  of  thee,  and  differing  but  in  name, 

But  let  no  alien  Sedley  interpose, 

To  lard  with  wit  thy  hungry  Epsom  prose. 

And  when  false  flowers  of  rhetoric  thou  wouldst 

cull, 

Trust  nature;  do  not  labour  to  be  dull, 
But  write  thy  best,  and  top;  and,  in  each  line, 
Sir  Formal's  oratory  will  be  thine: 
Sir  Formal,  though  unsought,  attends  thy  quill 
And  does  thy  northern  dedications  fill. 
Nor  let  false  friends  seduce  thy  mind  to  fame, 
By  arrogating  Jonson's  hostile  name; 
Let  father  Flecknoe  fire  thy  mind  with  praise, 
And  uncle  Ogleby  thy  envy  raise. 
Thou  art  my  blood,  where  Jonson  has  no  part: 
What  share  have  we  in  nature,  or  in  art? 
Where  did  his  wit  on  learning  fix  a  brand, 
And  rail  at  arts  he  did  not  understand? 
Where  made  he  love  in  Prince  Nicander's  vein, 
Or  swept  the  dust  in  Psyche's  humble  strain? 


When  did  his  muse  from  Fletcher  scenes  purloin, 
As  thou  whole  Etherege  dost  transfuse  to  thine? 
But  so  transfused,  as  oil  and  waters  flow, 
His  always  floats  above,  thine  sinks  below. 
This  is  thy  province,  this  thy  wondrous  way, 
New  humours  to  invent  for  each  new  play: 
This  is  that  boasted  bias  of  thy  mind, 
By  which  one  way  to  dulness  'tis  inclined; 
Which  makes  thy  writings  lean  on  one  side  still, 
And,  in  all  changes,  that  way  bends  thy  will. 
Nor  let  thy  mountain  belly  make  pretence 
Of  likeness;  thine's  a  tympany  of  sense. 
A  tun  of  man  in  thy  large  bulk  is  writ, 
But  sure  thou  art  but  a  kilderkin  of  wit. 
Like  mine,  thy  gentle  numbers  feebly  creep; 


JOHN  DRYDEN  143 

Thy  tragic  muse  gives  smiles,  thy  comic  sleep. 
With  whate'er  gall  thou  setst  thyself  to  write, 
Thy  inoffensive  satires  never  bite; 
In  thy  felonious  heart  though  venom  lies, 
It  does  but  touch  thy  Irish  pen,  and  dies. 
Thy  genius  calls  thee  not  to  purchase  fame 
In  keen  iambics,  but  mild  anagram. 
Leave  writing  plays,  and  choose  for  thy  command, 
Some  peaceful  province  in  Acrostic  land. 
There  thou  may'st  wings  display,  and  altars  raise, 
And  torture  one  poor  word  ten  thousand  ways; 
Or,  if  thou  wouldst  thy  different  talents  suit, 
Set  thy  own  songs,  and  sing  them  to  thy  lute." 
He    said :    but   his   last   words   were    scarcely 

heard ; 

For  Bruce  and  Longvil  had  a  trap  prepared, 
And  down  they  sent  the  yet  declaiming  bard. 
Sinking  he  left  his  drugget  robe  behind, 
Borne  upwards  by  a  subterranean  wind. 
The  mantle  fell  to  the  young  prophet's  part; 
With    double  portion  of  his  father's  art. 

ACHITOPHEL 

(From  Absalom  and  Achitophel,  1681) 

Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first; 
A  name  to  all  succeeding  ages  curst: 
For  close  designs,  and  crooked  counsels  fit; 
Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit; 
Restless,  unfixed  in  principles  and  place; 
In  power  unpleased,  impatient  of  disgrace; 
A  fiery  soul,  which,  working  out  its  way, 
Fretted  the  pigmy-body  to  decay, 
And  o'er-informed  the  tenement  of  clay. 
A  daring  pilot  in  extremity, 
Pleased  with  the  danger,  when  the  waves  went 
high, 


H4  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

He  sought  the  storms;  but  for  a  calm  unfit, 
Would  steer  too  nigh  the  sands,  to  boast  his  wit 
Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied, 
And  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide; 
Else,  why  should   he,  with  wealth  and   honour 

blest, 

Refuse  his  age  the  needful  hours  of  rest? 
Punish  a  body  which  he  could  not  please; 
Bankrupt  of  life,  yet  prodigal  of  ease? 
And  all  to  leave  what  with  his  toil  he  won, 
To  that  unfeathered  two-legged  thing,  a  son; 
Got,  while  his  soul  did  huddled  notions  try; 
And  born  a  shapeless  lump,  like  anarchy. 
In  friendship  false,  implacable  in  hate; 
Resolved  to  ruin,  or  to  rule  the  state. 
To  compass  this  the  triple  bond  he  broke; 
The  pillars  of  the  public  safety  shook; 
And  fitted  Israel  for  a  foreign  yoke; 
Then,  seized  with  fear,  yet  still  affecting  fame, 
Usurped  a  patriot's  all-atoning  name. 
So  easy  still  it  proves  in  factious  times, 
With  public  zeal  to  cancel  private  crimes. 
How  safe  is  treason,  and  how  sacred  ill, 
Where  none  can  sin  against  the  people's  will, 
Where  crowds  can  wink,  and  no  offence  be  known. 
Since  in  another's  guilt  they  find  their  own? 
Yet  fame  deserved  no  enemy  can  grudge ; 
The  statesman  we  abhor,  but  praise  the  judge. 
In  Israel's  courts  ne'er  sat  an  Abbethdin 
With  more  discerning  eyes,  or  hands  more  clean, 
Unbribed,  unsought,  the  wretched  to  redress; 
Swift  of  despatch,  and  easy  of  access. 
Oh !  had  he  been  content  to  serve  the  crown, 
With  virtue  only  proper  to  the  gown; 
Or  had  the  rankness  of  the  soil  been  freed 
From  cockle,  that  oppressed  the  noble  seed ; 
David  for  him  his  tuneful  harp  had  strung, 


JOHN  DRYDEN  145 

And  heaven  had  wanted  one  immortal  song. 
But  wild  ambition  loves  to  slide,  not  stand, 
And  fortune's  ice  prefers  to  virtue's  land. 
Achitophel,  grown  weary  to  possess 
A  lawful  fame,  and  lazy  happiness, 
Disdained  the  golden  fruit  to  gather  free, 
And  lent  the  crowd  his  arm  to  shake  the  tree. 


A  SONG  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY,  22ND  NOVEMBER. 
1687 

I. 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 

This  universal  frame  began: 
When  nature  underneath  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 
And  could  not  heave  her  head, 
The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 

"  Arise,  ye  more  than  dead." 
Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry, 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 

And  Music's  power  obey. 
From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 

This  universal  frame  began; 
From  harmony  to  harmony 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran, 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  man. 

II. 

What  passion  cannot  music  raise  and  quell? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell, 

His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 

To  worship  that  celestial  sound: 


146  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell, 
That  spoke  so  sweetly,  and  so  well. 

What  passion  cannot  music  raise  and  quell? 

ill. 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangour 

Excites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double,  double,  double  beat 
Of  the  thundering  drum, 
Cries,  hark!  the  foes  come: 
Charge,  charge!  'tis  too  late  to  retreat. 

IV. 

The  soft  complaining  flute, 
In  dying  notes,  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers; 
Whose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling  lute. 

V. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation, 
Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion, 

For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 

VI. 

But,  oh!  what  art  can  teach, 

What  human  voice  can  reach. 
The  sacred  organ's  praise? 

Xotes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wend  their  heavenly  ways 

To  mend  the  choirs  above. 


JOHN  DRYDEN  147 

VII. 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race; 
And  trees  unrooted  left  their  place, 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre: 
But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher; 

When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given, 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appeared, 
Mistaking  earth  for  heaven. 
i 

GRAND  CHORUS 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 

The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blessed  above; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die, 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky. 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST,  OR  THE  POWER  OF  MUSIC; 
AN  ODE  IN  HONOUR  OF  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY,  1697 

I. 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son: 
Aloft,  in  awful  state, 
The  godlike  hero  sate 
On  his  imperial  throne. 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around; 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound : 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned.) 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side, 
Sate  like  a  blooming  eastern  bride, 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 


148  DBYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 


CHORUS 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 


ii. 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  quire, 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love.) 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode; 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed. 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast; 
Then,  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  tho 

world. 

The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity!  they  shout  around; 
A  present  deity!  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
With  ravished  ears, 
The  monarch  hears; 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 


JOHN  DRYDEN  149 

CHORUS 

With  ravished  ears, 
The  monarch  hears  ; 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

m. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung; 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair,  and  ever  young. 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  conies; 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums; 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face: 

Now,  give  the  hautboys  breath;  he  comes,  he  comes. 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure; 
.    Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

CHORUS 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure; 

Rich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 


IV. 

Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain: 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the 
slain. 


150  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes; 
And,  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  muse, 
Soft  pity  to  infuse, 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate, 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 

And  weltering  in  his  blood: 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need, 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Revolving,  in  his  altered  soul, 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

CHORUS 

Revolving,  in  his  altered  soul, 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below; 

And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 


v. 

The  mighty  master  smiled,  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree; 
'Twas  but  a  kindred-sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures, 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures : 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble; 
Honour,  but  an  empty  bubble; 


JOHN  DBYDEN  151 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying: 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  O  think  it  worth  enjoying; 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee — 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair, 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 

Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again; 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

CHORUS 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 

Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again ; 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  het  breast. 


VI. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again; 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 
And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark!  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head; 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge,  revenge!  Timotheus  cries, 
See  the  furies  arise; 


152  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

See  the  snakes,  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes! 
Behold  a  ghastly  band, 

Each  a  torch  in  his  hand ! 

Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
And,  unburied,  remain 
Inglorious  on  the  plain : 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. — 
The  princes  applaud,  with  a  furious  joy, 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 
Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

CHOEUS 

And  the  King  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy  ; 

Thais  led  the  way. 

To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

VII. 

Thus,  long  ago, 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 

While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute, 

And  sounding  lyre, 

Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
In ven tress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 


JOHN  DRYDEN  153 

With  nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown; 
He  raised  a  mortal  TO  the  skies, 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 

GBAND  CHORUS 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  : 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  nature1  s  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies, 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 

UNDER  MR.   MILTON'S  PICTURE 

Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England,  did  adorn. 
The  first,  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed; 
The  next,  in  majesty;  in  both  the  last. 
The  force  of  Nature  could  no  further  go; 
To  make  a  third,  she  joined  the  former  two. 


154  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

/iDattbew  {prior 

1664-1721 

TO  A   CHILD  OF   QUALITY   FIVE  YEARS  OLD. 
MDCCIV 

THE  AUTHOR  THEN  FORTY 

(From  Poems  on  Several  Occasions,  1709) 

Lords,  knights,  and  'squires  the  numerous  band, 
That  wear  the  fair  Miss  Mary's  fetters, 

Were  summoned  by  her  high  command, 
To  show  their  passioriS  by  their  letters. 

My  pen  among  the  rest  I  took, 
Lest  those  bright  eyes  that  cannot  read 

Should  dart  their  kindling  fires,  and  look 
The  power  they  have  to  be  obeyed. 

Nor  quality,  nor  reputation, 

Forbid  me  yet  my  flame  to  tell, 
Dear  five  years  old  befriends  my  passion, 

And  I  may  write  till  she  can  spell. 

For,  while  she  makes  her  silk-worm's  beds, 
With  all  the  tender  things  I  swear; 

Whilst  all  the  house  my  passion  reads. 
In  papers  round  her  baby's  hair; 

She  may  receive  and  own  my  flame, 

For  though  the  strictest  prudes  should  know  it, 
She'll  pass  for  a  most  virtuous  dame, 
And  I  for  an  unhappy  poet. 

Then,  too,  alas !  when  she  shall  tear 
The  lines  some  younger  rival  sends; 

She'll  give  me  leave  to  write,  I  fear, 
And  we  shall  still  continue  friends. 


MATTHEW  PKIOR  155 

For,  as  our  different  ages  move, 

'Tis  so  ordained,  (would  Fate  but  mend  it !) 
That  I  shall  be  past  making  love, 

When  she  begins  to  comprehend  it. 


A  BETTER  ANSWER 

Dear  Chloe,  how  blubbered  is  that  pretty  face! 

Thy  cheek  all  on  fire,  i.nd  thy  hair  all  uncurled : 
Pr'ythee  quit  this  caprice;  and  (as  old  Falstaff 
says), 

Let  us  e'en  talk  a  little  like  folks  of  this  world. 


How  cans't  thou  presume,  thou  hast  leave  to  de- 
stroy 
The  beauties,  which  Venus  but  lent  to  thy 

keeping  ? 

Those  looks  were  designed  to  inspire  love  and  joy : 
More  ordinary  eyes  may  serve  people  for  weep- 
ing. 

To  be  vexed  at  a  trifle  or  two  that  I  writ, 

Your  judgment  at  once,  and  my  passion  you 

wrong : 
You  take  that  for  fact,  which  will  scarce  be  found 

wit: 

Od's  life!  must  one  swear  to  the  truth  of  a 
song? 

What  I  speak,  my  fair  Chloe,  and  what  I  write, 

shows 

The  difference  there  is  betwixt  nature  and  art : 
I  court  others  in  verse;  but  I  love  thee  in  prose: 
And  they  have  my  whimsies ;  but  thou  hast  my 
heart. 


156  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

The  god  of  us  verse-men  (you  know,  Child)  the 
sun, 

How  after  his  journeys  he  sets  up  his  rest; 
If  at  morning  o'er  earth  'tis  his  fancy  to  run; 

At  night  he  reclines  on  his  Thetis's  breast. 

So  when  I  am  wearied  with  wandering  all  day ; 

To  thee,  my  delight,  in  the  evening  I  come : 
No  matter  what  beauties  I  saw  in  my  way : 

They  were  but  my  visits,  but  thou  art  my  home. 

Then  finish,  dear  Chloe,  this  pastoral  war; 

And  let  us  like  Horace  and  Lydia  agree : 
For  thou  art  a  girl  as  much  brighter  than  her, 

As  he  was  a  poet  sublimer  than  me. 

Josepb  Hfcfcison 

1672-1719 
ODE 

THE  SPACIOUS  FIRMAMENT 

(1712) 
I. 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 

Their  great  Original  proclaim: 

Th'  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day, 

Does  his  Creator's  power  display, 

And  publishes  to  every  land 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

II. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 


JOHN  GAY  157 

And,  nightly,  to  the  listening  earth, 

Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth: 

While  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 

And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 

Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 


ill. 

What  'though,  in  solemn  .silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball? 
What  though  nor  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found? 
In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice, 
For  ever  singing  as  they  shine, 
"  The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 


Sobn 

168&-1732 
FABLE  XVIII 

THE  PAINTER   WHO   PLEASED   NOBODY   AND   EVERYBODY 

(From  Fables,  1727) 

Lest  men  suspect  your  tale  untrue, 

Keep  probability  in  view. 

The  traveller  leaping  o'er  those  bounds, 

The  credit  of  his  book  confounds. 

Who  with  his  tongue  hath  armies  routed, 

Makes  ev'n  his  real  courage  doubted. 

But  flattery  never  seems  absurd; 

The  flatter'd  always  take  your  word: 

Impossibilities  seem  just : 

They  take  the  strongest  praise  on  trust. 


158  DBYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

Hyperboles,  though  ne'er  so  great, 
Will  still  come  short  of  self-conceit. 

So  very  like  a  Painter  drew, 
That  every  eye  the  picture  knew; 
He  hit  complexion,  feature,  air, 
So  just,  the  life  itself  was  there. 
No  flattery  with  his  colours  laid, 
To  bloom  restor'd  the  faded  maid; 
He  gave  each  muscle  all  its  strength; 
The  mouth,  the  ohin,  the  nose's  length; 
His  honest  pencil  touch'd  with  truth. 
And  mark'd  the  date  of  age  and  youth. 

He  lost  his  friends,  his  practice  f ail'd ; 
Truth  should  not  always  be  reveal'd; 
In  dusty  piles  his  pictures  lay, 
For  no  one  sent  the  second  pay. 
Two  bustos,  fraught  with  every  grace, 
A  Venus'  and  Apollo's  face, 
He  plac'd  in  view;  resolv'd  to  please. 
Who  ever  sat  he  drew  from  these, 
From  these  corrected  every  feature, 
And  spirited  each  awkward  creature. 

All  things  were  set;  the  hour  was  come, 
His  palette  ready  o'er  his  thumb; 
My  Lord  appear'd;  and,  seated  right, 
In  proper  attitude  and  light, 
The  Painter  look'd,  he  sketch'd  the  piece, 
Then  dipt  his  pencil,  talk'd  of  Greece, 
Of  Titian's  tints,  of  Guide's  air; 
'  Those  eyes,  my  Lord,  the  spirit  there, 
Might  well  a  Raphael's  hand  require, 
To  give  them  all  the  native  fire; 
The  features,  fraught  with  sense  and  wit, 
You'll  grant  are  very  hard  to  hit; 
But  yet  with  patience  you  shall  view, 
As  much  as  paint  and  art  can  do.' 

Observe  the  work.     My  Lord  replied, 


JOHN  GAY  159 

*  Till  now  I  thought  my  mouth  was  wide ; 
Besides,  my  nose  is  somewhat  long; 
Dear  sir,  for  me,  'tis  far  too  young ! ' 

'  Oh !  pardon  me,  (the  artist  cried) 
In  this  we  Painters  must  decide. 
The  piece  ev'n  common  eyes  must,  strike, 
I  warrant  it  extremely  like.' 

My  Lord  examin'd  it  a-new; 
~No  looking-glass  seem'd  half  so  true. 

A  lady  came,  with  borrow'd  grace, 
He  from  his  Venus  form'd  her  face. 
Her  lover  prais'd  the  Painter's  art; 
So  like  the  picture  in  his  heart! 
To  every  age  some  charm  he  lent; 
Ev'n  beauties  were   almost  content. 

Through  all  the  town  his  art  they  prais'd; 
His  custom  grew,  his  price  was  rais'd. 
Had  he  the  real  likeness  shown, 
Would  any  man  the  picture  own? 
But   when  thus  happily  he  wrought, 
Each  found  the  likeness  in  his  thought. 

ON  A  LAP  DOG 

Shock's  fate  I  mourn;  poor  Shock  is  now  no 

more! 

Ye  Muses!  mourn,  ye  Chambermaids!  deplore. 
Unhappy  Shock!     Yet  more  unhappy  fair, 
Doom'd  to  survive  thy  joy  and  only  care. 
Thy  wretched  fingers  now  no  more  shall  deck, 
And  tie  the  favorite  ribband  round  his  neck; 
No  more  thy  hand  shall  smooth  his  glossy  hair, 
And  comb  the  wavings  of  his  pendent  ear. 
Let  cease  thy  flowing  grief,  forsaken  maid! 
All  mortal  pleasures  in  a  moment  fade: 
Our  surest  hope  is  in  an  hour  destroy'd, 
And  love,  best  gift  of  Heaven,  not  long  enjoy'd. 


160  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

Methinks  I  see  her  frantic  with  despair, 
Her  streaming  eyes,  wrung  hands,   and  flowing 

hair; 

Her  Mechlin  pinners,  rent,  the  floor  bestrow, 
And  her  torn  face  gives  real  signs  of  woe. 
Hence,  Superstition!  that  tormenting  guest, 
That  haunts  with  fancied  fears  the  coward  breast ; 
No  dread  events  upon  this  fate  attend, 
Stream  eyes  no  more,  no  more  thy  tresses  rend. 
Though  certain  omens  oft  forwarn  a  state, 
And  dying  lions  show  the  monarch's  fate, 
Why  should  such  fears  bid  Celia's  sorrow  rise? 
For  when  a  lap  dog  falls,  no  lover  dies. 

Cease,  Celia,  cease;  restrain  thy  flowing  tears. 
Some  warmer  passion  will  dispel  thy  cares. 
In  man  you'll  find  a  more  substantial  bliss, 
More  grateful  toying  and  a  sweeter  kiss. 

He's  dead.     Oh !  lay  him  gently  in  the  ground ! 
And  may  his  tomb  be  by  this  verse  renown'd. 
Here  Shock,  the  pride  of  all  his  kind,  is  laid, 
Who  fawn'd  like  man,  but  ne'er  like  man  betray'd 


Hlejanfcer  pope 

1688-1744 

THE  RAPE   OF  THE  LOCK 

(Final  version  published  1717) 

CANTO  I. 

What  dire  offence  from  am'rous  causes  springs, 
What  mighty  contests  rise  from  trivial  things, 
I  sing.— This  verse  to  Caryll,  Muse!  is  due; 
This,  ev'n  Belinda  may  vouchsafe  to  view; 
Slight  is  the  subject,  but  not  so  the  praise, 
If  she  inspire,  and  he  approve  my  lays. 


ALEXANDER  POPE  161 

Say  what  strange  motive,  goddess !  could  com- 
pel 

A  well-bred  lord  t'  assault  a  gentle  belle? 
O  say  what  stranger  cause,  yet  unexplored, 
Could  make  a  gentle  belle  reject  a  lord? 
In  tasks  so  bold,  can  little  men  engage, 
And  in  soft  bosoms,  dwells  such  mighty  rage? 

Sol  through  white  curtains  shot  a  tim'rous  ray, 
And  op'd  those  eyes  that  must  eclipse  the  day; 
Now  lap-dogs  give  themselves  the  rousing  shake, 
And  sleepless  lovers,  just  at  twelve,  awake: 
Thrice   rung   the   bell,   the   slipper   knock'd   the 

ground, 

And  the  pressed  watch  returned  a  silver  sound. 
Belinda  still  her  downy  pillow  pressed, 
Her  guardian  sylph  prolonged  the  balmy  rest: 
'Twas  he  had  summoned  to  her  silent  bed 
The  morning  dream  that  hovered  o'er  her  head, 
A  youth  more  glitt'ring  than  a  birth-night  beau, 
(That  ev'n  in  slumber  caused  her  cheek  to  glow) 
Seemed  to  her  ear  his  winning  lips  to  lay, 
And  thus  in  whispers  said,  or  seemed  to  say. 

"  Fairest  of  mortals,  thou  distinguished  care 
Of  thousand  bright  inhabitants  of  air! 
If  e'er  one  vision  touched  thy  infant  thought, 
Of  all  the  nurse  and  all  the  priest  have  taught ; 
Of  airy  elves  by  moonlight  shadows  seen, 
The  silver  token,  and  the  circled  green, 
Or  virgins  visited  by  angel-pow'rs, 
With   golden   crowns   and   wreaths    of   heav'nly 

flow'rs ; 

Hear  and  believe!  thy  own  importance  know, 
Nor  bound  thy  narrow  views  to  things  below. 
Some  secret  truths,  from  learned  pride  concealed, 
To  maids  alone  and  children  are  revealed. 
What  though  no  credit  doubting  wits  may  give  ? 
The  fair  and  innocent  shall  still  believe. 


162  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

Know  then,  unnumbered  spirits  round  thee  fly, 

The  light  militia  of  the  lower  sky : 

These,  though  unseen,  are  ever  on  the  wing, 

Hang  o'er  the  box,  and  hover  round  the  ring. 

Think  what  an  equipage  thou  hast  in  air, 

And  view  with  scorn  two  pages  and  a  chair. 

As  now  your  own,  our  beings  were  of  old, 

And  once  inclosed  in  woman's  beauteous  mould; 

Thence,  by  a  soft  transition,  we  repair 

From  earthly  vehicles  to  these  of  air. 

Think   not,   when   woman's    transient    breath    is 

fled, 

That  all  her  vanities  at  once  are  dead; 
Succeeding  vanities  she  still  regards, 
And   though   she   plays   no   more,   o'erlooks   the 

cards. 

Her  joy  in  gilded  chariots,  when  alive, 
And  love  of  ombre,  after  death  survive. 
For  when  the  fair  in  all  their  pride  expire, 
To  their  first  elements,  their  souls  retire: 
The  sprites  of  fiery  termagants  in  flame 
Mount  up,  and  take  a  salamander's  name. 
Soft  yielding  minds  to  water  glide  away, 
And  sip,  with  nymphs,  their  elemental  tea. 
The  graver  prude  sinks  downward  to  a  gnome, 
In  search  of  mischief  still  on  earth  to  roam. 
The  light  coquettes  in  sylphs  aloft  repair, 
And  sport  and  flutter  in  the  fields  of  air. 

"  Know  further  yet ;  whoever  fair  and  chaste 
Eejects  mankind,  is  by  some  sylph  embraced: 
For  spirits,  freed  from  mortal  laws,  with  ease 
Assume  what  sexes  and  what  shapes  they  please. 
What  guards  the  purity  of  melting  maids. 
In  courtly  balls,  and  midnight  masquerades. 
Safe    from    the    treach'rous    friend,    the    daring 

spark, 
The  glance  by  day,  the  whisper  in  the  dark, 


ALEXANDER  POPE  163 

When   kind    occasion   prompts   their   warm   de- 
sires, 

When  music  softens,  and  when  dancing  fires? 
'Tis  but  their  sylph,  the  wise  celestials  know, 
Though  honour  is  the  word  with  men  below. 
Some  nymphs  there  are,  too  conscious  of  their 

face, 

For  life  predestined  to  the  gnomes'  embrace. 
These  swell  their  prospects  and  exalt  t.heir  pride, 
When  offers  are  disdained,  and  love  denyed: 
Then  gay  ideas  crowd  the  vacant  brain, 
While  peers,  and  dukes,  and  all  their  sweeping 

train, 

And  garters,  stars,  and  coronets  appear, 
And  in  soft  sounds,  '  Your  Grace'  salutes  their 

ear. 

'Tis  these  that  early  taint  the  female  soul. 
Instruct  the  eyes  of  young  coquettes  to  roll, 
Teach  infant-cheeks  a  bidden  blush  to  know, 
And  little  hearts  to  nutter  at  a  beau. 

"  Oft',  when  the  world  imagine  women  stray, 
The   sylphs   through   mystic   mazes   guide   their 

way; 

Through  all  the  giddy  circle  they  pursue, 
And  old  impertinence  expel  by  new. 
What  tender  maid  but  must  a  victim  fall 
To  one  man's  treat,  but  for  another's  ball  ? 
When  Florio  speaks  what  virgin  could  withstand, 
If  gentle  Damon  did  not  squeeze  her  hand? 
With  varying  vanities,  from  ev'ry  part, 
They  shift  the  moving  toyshop  of  their  heart; 
Where  wigs  with  wigs,  with  sword-knots  sword- 
knots  strive, 

Beaus  banish  beaus,  and  coaches  coaches  drive. 
This  erring  mortals  levity  may  call; 
Oh  blind  to  truth !  the  sylphs  contrive  it  all. 
"  Of  these  am  I,  who  thy  protection  claim, 


164  DEYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

A  watchful  sprite,  and  Ariel  is  my  name. 
Late,  as  I  ranged  the  crystal  wilds  of  air, 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  thy  ruling  star 
I  saw,  alas !  some  dread  event  impend, 
Ere  to  the  main  this  morning  sun  descend. 
But  heaven  reveals  not  what,  or  how,  or  where : 
Warned  by  the  sylph,  oh  pious  maid,  beware ! 
This  to  disclose  is  all  thy  guardian  can: 
Beware  of  all,  but  most  beware  of  man !  " 

He  said;  when  Shock,  who  thought  she  slept 

too  long, 
Leaped   up,    and   waked   his   mistress    with   his 

tongue ; 

'Twas  then,  Belinda,  if  report  say  true, 
Thy  eyes  first  opened  on  a  billet-doux; 
Wounds,  charms,  and  ardours,  were  no  sooner 

read, 
But  all  the  vision  vanished  from  thy  head. 

And  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet  stands  displayed, 
Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 
First,  rob'd  in  white,  the  nymph  intent  adores, 
With  head  uncover'd,  the  cosmetic  pow'rs. 
A  heav'nly  image  in  the  glass  appears, 
To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she  rears; 
Th'  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar's  side. 
Trembling  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 
Unnumbered  treasures  ope  at  once,  and  here 
The  various  off'rings  of  the  world  appear; 
From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious  toil, 
And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glitt'ring  spoil. 
This  casket  India's  glowing  gems  unlocks, 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box, 
The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite, 
Transformed    to    combs,    the    speckled    and    the 

white. 

Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows, 
Puffs,  powders,  patches,  Bibles,  billets-doux. 


ALEXANDER  POPE  165 

Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms, 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  ev'ry  grace, 
And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her  face; 
Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise, 
And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 
The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling  care, 
These  set  the  head,  and  those  divide  the  hair, 
Some  fold  the  sleeve, whilst  others  plait  the  gown; 
And  Betty's  praised  for  labors  not  her  own. 


CANTO  II. 

Not  with  more  glories,  in  th'  ethereal  plain, 
The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main, 
Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 
Launched  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Thames. 
Fair   nymphs,   and   well-dressed    youths   around 

her  shone, 

But  ev'ry  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 
On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 
Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore. 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those. 
Favours  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends; 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 
Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide; 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall, 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you'll  forget  'em  all. 

This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  mankind, 
Nourished  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung  behind 
In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck, 
With  shining  ringlets,  the  smooth  iv'ry  neck. 


166  DBYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains, 
And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender  chains. 
With  hairy  springes  we  the  birds  betray, 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey, 
Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  insnare, 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 

Th'   advent'rous   baron   the   bright   locks   ad 

mired; 

He  saw,  he  wished,  and  to  the  prize  aspired. 
Resolv'd  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way, 
By  force  to  ravish,  or  by  fraud  betray; 
For  when  success  a  lover's  toil  attends, 
Few  ask,  if  fraud  or  force  attained  his  ends. 

For  this,  ere  Pbxebus  rose,  he  had  implored 
Propitious  heav'n,  and  ev'ry  pow'r  adored, 
But  chiefly  Love — to  Love  an  altar  built, 
Of  twelve  vast  French  romances,  neatly  gilt. 
There  lay  three  garters,  half  a  pair  of  gloves, 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves; 
With  tender  billets-doux  he  lights  the  pyre, 
And  breathes  three  am'rous  sighs  to  raise  the  fire. 
Then  prostrate  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent  eyes 
Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the  prize: 
The  pow'rs  gave  ear,  and  granted  half  his  pray'r, 
The  rest,  the  winds  dispersed  in  empty  air. 

But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides, 
The  sun-beams  trembling  on  the  floating  tides : 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky, 
And  softened  sounds  along  the  waters  die; 
Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently  play, 
Belinda  smiled,  and  all  the  world  was  gay. 
All   but   the   sylph — with   careful   thoughts   op- 
pressed, 

Th'  impending  woe  sat  heavy  on  his  breast. 
He  summons  strait  his  denizens  of  air; 
The  lucid  squadrons  round  the  sails  repair: 
Soft  o'er  the  shrouds  aerial  whispers  breathe, 


ALEXANDER  POPE  167 

That  seemed  but  zephyrs  to  the  train  beneath. 
Some  to  the  sun  their  insect-wings  unfold, 
Waft  on  the  breeze,  or  sink  in  clouds  of  gold; 
Transparent  forms,  too  fine  for  mortal  sight, 
Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolv'd  in  light, 
Loose  to  the  wind  their  airy  garments  flew, 
Thin  glitt'ring  textures  of  the  filmy  dew, 
Dipped  in  the  richest  tincture  of  the  skies, 
Where  light  disports  in  ever-mingling  dyes; 
While  ev'ry  beam  new  transient  colours  flings, 
Colours  that  change  whene'er  they  wave  their 

wings. 

Amid  the  circle,  on  the  gilded  mast, 
Superior  by  the  head,  was  Ariel  plac'd ; 
His  purple  pinions  opening  to  the  sun, 
He  raised  his  azure  wand,  and  thus  begun: 

"  Ye  sylphs  and  sylphids,  to  your  chief  give  ear ! 
Fays,  fairies,  genii,  elves,  and  demons,  hear! 
Ye  know  the  spheres  and  various  tasks  assigned 
By  laws  eternal  to  th'  aerial  kind. 
Some  in  the  fields  of  purest  ether  play, 
And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of  day. 
Some  guide  the  course  of  wandering  orbs  on  high, 
Or  roll  the  planets  through  the  boundless  sky; 
Some  less  refined,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  light 
Pursue  the  stars  that  shoot  athwart  the  night, 
Or  suck  the  mists  in  grosser  air  below, 
Or  dip  their  pinions  in  the  painted  bow, 
Or  brew  fierce  tempests  on  the  wintry  main, 
Or  o'er  the  glebe  distil  the  kindly  rain. 
Others  on  earth  o'er  human  race  preside, 
Watch  all  their  ways,  and  all  their  actions  guide : 
Of  these  the  chief  the  care  of  nations  own, 
And  guard  with  arms  divine  the  British  throne. 

"  Our  humbler  province  is  to  tend  the  fair, 
Not  a  less  pleasing,  though  less  glorious  care; 
To  save  the  powder  from  too  rude  a  gale, 


168    '  DBYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

Nor  let  th'  imprisoned  essences  exhale; 

To  draw  fresh  colours  from  the  vernal  flow'rs, 

To  steal  from  rainbows  ere  they  drop  in  show'rs 

A  brighter  wash  to  curl  their  waving  hairs, 

Assist  their  blushes,  and  inspire  their  airs; 

Nay,  oft,  in  dreams,  invention  we  bestow, 

To  change  a  flounce,  or  add  a  furbelow. 

"  This  day,  black  omens  threat  the  brightest 

fair 

That  e'er  deserved  a  watchful  spirit's  care; 
Some  dire  disaster,  or  by  force,  or  slight; 
But  what,  or  where,  the  fates  have  wrapped  in 

night. 

Whether  the  nymph  shall  break  Diana's  law, 
Or  some  frail  China  jar  receive  a  flaw; 
Or  stain  her  honour,  or  her  new  brocade; 
Forget  her  pray'rs,  or  miss  a  masquerade; 
Or  lose  her  heart,  or  necklace,  at  a  ball; 
Or  whether  heav'n  has  doom'd  that  Shock  must 

fall. 

Haste,  then,  ye  spirits!  to  your  charge  repair: 
The  flutt'ring  fan  be  Zephyretta's  care; 
The  drops  to  thee,  Brillante,  we  consign; 
And,  Momentilla,  let  the  watch  be  thine; 
Do  thou,  Crispissa,  tend  her  f av'rite  lock ; 
Ariel  himself  shall  be  the  guard  of  Shock. 

"  To  fifty  chosen  Sylphs,  of  special  note, 
We  trust  th'  important  charge,  the  petticoat: 

Form  a  strong  line  about  the  silver  bound, 
And  guard  the  wide  circumference  around. 
"Whatever  spirit,  careless  of  his  charge, 
His  post  neglects,  or  leaves  the  fair  at  large, 
Shall  feel  sharp  vengeance  soon  o'ertake  his  sins, 
Be  stopped  in  vials,  or  transfixed  with  pins; 
Or  plunged  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie, 
Or  wedged,  whole  ages  in  a  bodkin's  eye; 


ALEXANDER  POPE  169 

Gums  and  pomatums  shall  his  flight  restrain, 
While  clogged  he  beats  his  silken  wings  in  vain; 
Or  alum  styptics  with  contracting  pow'r, 
Shrink  his  thin  essence  like  a  ri veiled  flower; 
Or,  as  Ixion  fixed,  the  wretch  shall  feel 
The  giddy  motion  of  the  whirling  mill, 
In  fumes  of  burning  chocolate  shall  glow, 
And  tremble  at  the  sea  that  froths  below ! " 

He  spoke;  the  spirits  from  the  sails  descend: 
Some,  orb  in  orb,  around  the  nymph  extend; 
Some  thrid  the  mazy  ringlets  of  her  hair ; 
Some  hang  upon  the  pendants  of  her  ear; 
With  beating  hearts  the  dire  event  they  wait, 
Anxious,  and  trembling  for  the  birth  of  fate. 

CANTO  III. 

Close   by   those   meads,   for  ever   crowned   with 

flow'rs, 
Where   Thames   with   pride   surveys   his   rising 

tow'rs, 

There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic  frame, 
Which  from  the  neighb'ring  Hampton  takes  its 

name. 

Here  Britain's  statesmen  oft  the  fall  foredoom 
Of  foreign  tyrants,  and  of  nymphs  at  home ; 
Here  thou,  great  ANNA  !  whom  three  realms  obey, 
Dost  sometimes  counsel  take — and  sometimes  tea. 

Hither  the  heroes  and  the  nymphs  resort, 
To  taste  a  while  the  pleasures  of  a  court; 
In  various  talk  th'  instructive  hours  they  passed, 
Who  gave  the  ball,  or  paid  the  visit  last; 
One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  Queen, 
And  one  describes  a  charming  Indian  screen; 
A  third  interprets  motions,  looks,  and  eyes; 
At  ev'ry  word  a  reputation  dies. 


1VO  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

Snuff,  or  the  fan,  supply  each  pause  of  chat, 
With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all  that. 

Meanwhile,  declining  from  the  noon  of  day, 
The  sun  obliquely  shoots  his  burning  ray ; 
The  hungry  judges  soon  the  sentence  sign, 
And  wretches  hang  that  jury-men  may  dine; 
The   merchant    from   th'   Exchange   returns   in 

peace, 

And  the  long  labours  of  the  toilet  cease. 
Belinda  now,  whom  thirst  of  fame  invites, 
Burns  to  encounter  two  advent'rous  knights, 
At  ombre  singly  to  decide  their  doom; 
And  swells  her  breast  with  conquests  yet  to  come. 
Straight  the  three  bands  prepare  in  arms  to  join, 
Each  band  the  number  of  the  sacred  nine. 
Soon  as  she  spreads  her  hand,  th'  aerial  guard 
Descend,  and  sit  on  each  important  card: 
First  Ariel  perched  upon  a  Matadore, 
Then  each  according  to  the  rank  they  bore; 
For  sylphs,  yet  mindful  of  their  ancient  race, 
Are,  as  when  women,  wondrous  fond  of  place. 

Behold  four  kings  in  majesty  revered, 
With  hoary  whiskers  and  a  forky  beard; 
And  four  fair  queens  whose  hands  sustain  a 

flow'r, 

Th'  expressive  emblem  of  their  softer  pow'r; 
Four  knaves  in  garbs  succinct,  a  trusty  band ; 
Caps  on  their  heads,  and  halberts  in  their  hand; 
And  parti-coloured  troops,  a  shining  train, 
Draw  forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet  plain. 
The    skilful     nymph     reviews     her     force     with 

care: 

Let  spades  be  trumps!  she  said,  and  trumps  they 
were. 

Now  move  to  war  her  sable  Matadores, 
In  show  like  leaders  of  the  swarthy  Moors. 
Spadillio  first,  unconquerable  lord! 


ALEXANDER  POPE  171 

Led  off  two  captive  trumps,  and  swept  the  board. 
As  many  more  Manillio  forced  to  yield, 
And  marched  a  victor  from  the  verdant  field. 
Him  Basto  followed,  but  his  fate  more  hard 
Gained  but  one  trump  and  one  plebeian  card. 
With  his  broad  sabre  next,  a  chief  in  years, 
The  hoary  majesty  of  spades  appears, 
Puts  forth  one  manly  leg,  to  sight  revealed, 
The  rest  his  many  coloured  robe  concealed. 
The  rebel  knave,  who  dares  his  prince  engage," 
Proves  the  just  victim  of  his  royal  rage. 
Ev'n     mighty     Pam,     that     kings     and     queens 

o'erthrew, 

And  mowed  down  armies  in  the  fights  of  loo, 
Sad  chance  of  war !  now  destitute  of  aid, 
Falls  undistinguished  by  the  victor  spade! 

Thus  far  both  armies  to  Belinda  yield; 
Now  to  the  baron  fate  inclines  the  field. 
His  warlike  Amazon  her  host  invades, 
Th'  imperial  consort  of  the  crown  of  spades. 
The  club's  black  tyrant  first  her  victim  died, 
Spite  of  his  haughty  mien,  and  barb'rous  pride: 
What  boots  the  regal  circle  on  his  head, 
His  giant  limbs,  in  state  unwieldy  spread; 
That  long  behind  he  trails  his  pompous  robe, 
And  of  all  monarchs  only  grasps  the  globe? 

The  baron  now  his  diamonds  pours  apace! 
Th'  embroidered  king  who  shows  but    half  his 

face, 

And  his  refulgent  queen,  with  pow'rs  combined, 
Of  broken  troops,  an  easy  conquest  find. 
Clubs,  diamonds,  hearts,  in  wild  disorder  seen, 
With  throngs  promiscuous  strew  the  level  green. 
Thus  when  dispersed  a  routed  army  runs, 
Of  Asia's  troops,  and  Afric's  sable  sons, 
With  like  confusion  different  nations  fly, 
Of  various  habit,  and  of  various  dye; 


172  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

The  pierced  battalions  disunited  fall, 

In  heaps  on  heaps;  one  fate  o'envhelms  them  all. 

The  knave  of  diamonds  tries  his  wily  arts, 
And  wins  (oh  shameful  chance!)   the  queen  of 

hearts. 

At  this,  the  blood  the  virgin's  cheek  forsook, 
A  livid  paleness  spreads  o'er  all  her  look; 
She  sees,  and  trembles  at  th'  approaching  ill, 
Just  in  the  jaws  of  ruin,  and  codille. 
•       And  now  (as  oft  in  some  distempered  state) 
On  one  nice  trick  depends  the  gen'ral  fate : 
An  ace  of  hearts  steps  forth:  The  king  unseen 
Lurked  in  her  hand,  and  mourned  his  captive 

queen : 

He  springs  to  vengeance  with  an  eager  pace, 
And  falls  like  thunder  on  the  prostrate  ace. 
The  nymph  exulting  fills  with  shouts  the  sky; 
The  walls,  the  woods,  and  long  canals  reply. 

Oh  thoughtless  mortals!  ever  blind  to  fate, 
Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate. 
Sudden  these  honours  shall  be  snatched  away, 
And  cursed  for  ever  this  victorious  day. 

For  lo!   the  board  with  cups   and   spoons   is 

crowned, 

The  berries  crackle,  and  the  mill  turns  round; 
On  shining  altars  of  japan  they  raise 
The  silver  lamp;  the  fiery  spirits  blaze: 
From  silver  spouts  the  grateful  liquors  glide, 
While  China's  earth  receives  the  smoking  tide: 
At  once  they  gratify  their  scent  and  taste, 
And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 
Straight  hover  round  the  fair  her  airy  band; 
Some,  as  she  sipped,  the  fuming  liquor  fanned, 
Some  o'er  her  lap  their  careful  plumes  displayed, 
Trembling,  and  conscious  of  the  rich  brocade. 
Coffee  (which  makes  the  politician  wise, 
And  see  through   all  things   with   his   half-shut 

eyes) 


ALEXANDER  POPE  173 

Sent  up  in  vapours  to  the  baron's  brain 
New  stratagems,  the  radiant  lock  to  gain. 
Ah  cease,  rash  youth !  desist  ere  'tis  too  late, 
Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla's  fate ! 
Changed  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air, 
She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus'  injured  hair! 

But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their  will, 
How  soon  they  find  fit  instruments  of  ill ! 
Just  then,  Clarissa  drew  with  tempting  grace 
A  two-edged  weapon  from  her  shining  case: 
So  ladies  in  romance  assist  their  knight, 
Present  the  spear,  and  arm  him  for  the  fight. 
He  takes  the  gift  with  rev'rence,  and  extends 
The  little  engine  on  his  fingers'  ends; 
This  just  behind  Belinda's  neck  he  spread, 
As  o'er  the  fragrant  steams  she  bends  her  head. 
Swift  to  the  lock  a  thousand  sprites  repair; 
A  thousand  wings,  by  turns,  blow  back  the  hair; 
And  thrice  they  twitched  the  diamond  in  her  ear ; 
Thrice    she    looked    back,    and    thrice    the    foe 

drew  near. 

Just  in  that  instant,  anxious  Ariel  sought 
The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin's  thought; 
As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclined, 
He  watched  th'  ideas  rising  in  her  mind, 
Sudden  he  viewed  in  spite  of  all  her  art, 
An  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart. 
Amazed,  confused,  he  found  his  pow'r  expired, 
Eesigned  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retired. 

The  peer  now  spreads  the  glitt'ring  forfex  wide 
T'  inclose  the  lock;  now  joins  it,  to  divide. 
Ev'n.  then,  before  the  fatal  engine  closed, 
A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interposed ; 
Fate  urged  the  shears,  and  cut  the  sylph  in  twain, 
(But  airy  substance  soon  unites  again,) 
The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dissever 
From  the  fair  head,  for  ever,  and  for  everl 


174  DBYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

Then    flashed    the   living   lightning    from    her 

eyes, 

And  screams  of  horror  rend  th'  affrighted  skies. 
Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  heav'n  are  cast, 
When  husbands,  or  when  lap-dogs  breathe  their 

last; 

Or  when  rich  China  vessels  fall'n  from  high, 
In  glitt'ring  dust,  and  painted  fragments  lie! 
"  Let    wreaths    of   triumph   now    my    temples 

twine," 

(The  victor  cried,)  "the  glorious  prize  is  mine! 
While  fish  in  streams,  or  birds  delight  in  air, 
Or  in  a  coach  and  six  the  British  fair, 
As  long  as  Atalantis  shall  be  read. 
Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a  lady's  bed, 
While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days, 
When  num'rous  wax-lights  in  bright  order  blaze, 
While  nymphs  take  treats,  or  assignations  give, 
So  long  my  honour,  name,  and  praise  shall  live !  " 
What  time  would  spare,  from  steel  receives  its 

date, 

And  monuments,  like  men,  submit  to  fate ! 
Steel  could  the  labour  of  the  gods  destroy, 
And  strike  to  dust  th'  imperial  tow'rs  of  Troy; 
Steel  could  the  works  of  mortal  pride  confound, 
And  hew  triumphal  arches  to  the  ground. 
What  wonder  then,  fair  nymph!  thy  hair  should 

feel 
The  conqu'ring  force  of  unresisted  steel? 


CANTO  IV. 

But  anxious  cares  the  pensive  nymph  oppressed, 
And  secret  passions  laboured  in  her  breast. 
Not  youthful  kings  in  battle  seized  alive, 
Not  scornful  virgins  who  their  charms  survive, 


ALEXANDER  POPE  175 

Not  ardent  lovers  robbed  of  all  their  bliss, 
Not  ancient  ladies  when  refused  a  kiss, 
Not  tyrants  fierce  that  unrepenting  die, 
Not  Cynthia  when  her  manteau's  pinned  awry, 
E'er  felt  such  rage,  resentment,  and  despair, 
As  thou,  sad  virgin!  for  thy  ravished  hair. 

For,  that  sad  moment,  when  the  sylphs  with- 
drew, 

And  Ariel  weeping  from  Belinda  flew, 
Umbriel,  a  dusky,  melancholy  sprite, 
As  ever  sullied  the  fair  face  of  light, 
Down  to  the  central  earth,  his  proper  scene, 
Repaired  to  search  the  gloomy  cave  of  Spleen. 

Swift  on  his  sooty  pinions  flits  the  gnome, 
And  in  a  vapour  reached  the  dismal  dome. 
No  cheerful  breeze  this  sullen  region  knows, 
The  dreaded  east  is  all  the  wind  that  blows, 
Here  in  a  grotto,  sheltered  close  from  air, 
And  screened  in  shades  from  day's  detested  glare, 
She  sighs  for  ever  on  her  pensive  bed, 
Pain  at  her  side,  and  Megrim  at  her  head. 

Two  handmaids  wait  the  throne ;  alike  in  place, 
But  diff  ring  far  in  figure  and  in  face. 
Here  stood  Ill-nature  like  an  ancient  maid, 
Her  wrinkled  form  in  black  and  white  arrayed; 
With  store  of  pray'rs,  for  mornings,  nights,  and 

noons, 
Her  hand  is  filled ;  her  bosom  with  lampoons. 

There  Affectation,  with  a  sickly  mien, 
Shows  in  her  cheek  the  roses  of  eighteen, 
Practised  to  lisp  and  hang  the  head  aside, 
Faints  into  airs,  and  languishes  with  pride, 
On  the  rich  quilt  sinks  with  becoming  woe, 
Wrapt  in  a  gown,  for  sickness,  and  for  show. 
The  fair  ones  feel  such  maladies  as  these, 
When  each  new  night-dress  gives  a  new  disease 

A  constant  vapour  o'er  the  palace  flies; 


176  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

Strange  phantoms  rising  as  the  mists  arise; 
Dreadful,  as  hermit's  dreams  in  haunted  shades. 
Or  bright,  as  visions  of  expiring  maids. 
Now  glaring  fiends,  and  snakes  on  rolling  spires, 
Pale  spectres,  gaping  tombs,  and  purple  fires; 
Now  lakes  of  liquid  gold,  Elysian  scenes, 
And  crystal  domes,  and  angels  in  machines. 
Unnumbered  throngs  on  ev'ry  side  are  seen, 
Of  bodies  changed  to  various  forms  by  Spleen. 
Here  living  tea-pots  stand,  one  arm  held  out, 
One  bent;  the  handle  this,  and  that  the  spout; 
A  pipkin  there,  like  Homer's  tripod  walks; 
Here  sighs  a  jar,  and  there  a  goose-pye  talks ; 
Men  prove  with  child,  as  pow'rful  fancy  works, 
And  maids  turned  bottles  call  aloud  for  corks. 

Safe  past  the  gnome  through  this  fantastic  band, 
A  branch  of  healing  spleenwort  in  his  hand. 
Then  thus  addressed  the  pow'r — "  Hail,  wayward 


queen 


Who  rule  the  sex  to  fifty  from  fifteen ; 

Parent  of  vapours  and  of  female  wit, 

Who  give  th'  hysteric,  or  poetic  fit, 

On  various  tempers  act  by  various  ways, 

Make  some  take  physic,  others  scribble  plays; 

Who  cause  the  proud  their  visits  to  delay, 

And  send  the  godly  in  a  pet  to  pray; 

A  nymph  there  is,  that  all  thy  pow'r  disdains, 

And  thousands  more  in  equal  mirth  maintains. 

But,  oh !  if  e'er  thy  gnome  could  spoil  a  grace, 

Or  raise  a  pimple  on  a  beauteous  face, 

Like  citron-waters  matrons'  cheeks  inflame, 

Or  change  complexions  at  a  losing  game; 

Or  caus'd  suspicion  when  no  soul  was  rude. 
Or  discompos'd  the  head-dress  of  a  prude, 
Or  e'er  to  costive  lapdog  gave  disease, 
Which  not  the  tears  of  brightest  eyes  could  ease, 


ALEXANDER  POPE  177 

Hear  me,  and  touch  Belinda  with  chagrin, 
That  single  act  gives  half  the  world  the  spleen." 

The  goddess  with  a  discontented  air 
Seems  to  reject  him,  though  she  grants  his  pray'r. 
A  wond'rous  bag  with  both  her  hands  she  binds, 
Like  that  where  once  Ulysses  held  the  winds; 
There  she  collects  the  force  of  female  lungs, 
Sighs,  sobs,  and  passions,  and  the  war  of  tongues, 
A  phial  next  she  fills  with  fainting  fears, 
Soft  sorrows,  melting  griefs,  and  flowing  tears. 
The  gnome  rejoicing  bears  her  gifts  away, 
Spreads  his  black  wings,  and  slowly  mounts  to 

day. 

Sunk  in  Thalestris'  arms  the  nymph  he  found. 
Her  eyes  dejected,  and  her  hair  unbound. 
Full  o'er  their  heads  the  swelling  bag  he  rent, 
And  all  the  furies  issued  at  the  vent. 
Belinda  burns  with  more  than  mortal  ire, 
And  fierce  Thalestris  fans  the  rising  fire. 
"  O  wretched  maid !  "  she  spread  her  hands,  and 

cried, 
(While   Hampton's    echoes    "  Wretched    maid !  " 

replied,) 

"  Was  it  for  this  you  took  such  constant  care 
The  bodkin,  comb,  and  essence  to  prepare? 
For  this  your  locks  in  paper  durance  bound? 
For  this  with  tort'ring  irons  wreathed  around? 
For  this  with  fillets  strained  your  tender  head. 
And  bravely  bore  the  double  loads  of  lead? 
Gods !  shall  the  ravisher  display  your  hair, 
While  the  fops  envy,  and  the  ladies  stare ! 
Honour  forbid!  at  whose  unrivalled  shrine 
Ease,  pleasure,  virtue,  all  our  sex  resign. 
Methinks  already  I  your  tears  survey, 
Already  hear  the  horrid  things  they  say, 
Already  see  you  a  degraded  toast, 
And  all  your  honour  in  a  whisper  lost ! 


178  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

How  shall  I,  then,  your  helpless  fame  defend? 
'Twill  then  be  infamy  to  seem  your  friend ! 
And  shall  this  prize,  th'  inestimable  prize, 
Exposed  through  crystal  to  the  gazing  eyes, 
And  heightened  by  the  diamond's  circling  rayss 
On  that  rapacious  hand  for  ever  blaze? 
Sooner  shall  grass  in  Hyde  Park  Circus  grow, 
And  wits  take  lodgings  in  the  sound  of  Bow; 
Sooner  let  earth,  air,  sea,  to  chaos  f  ali, 
Men,  monkeys,  lap-dogs,  parrots,  perish  all !  " 

She  said;  then  raging  to  Sir  Plume  repairs, 
And  bids  her  beau  demand  the  precious  hairs : 
(Sir  Plume,  of  amber  snuff-box  justly  vain, 
And  the  nice  conduct  of  a  clouded  cane) 
With  earnest  eyes,  and  round  unthinking  face, 
He  first  the  snuff-box  opened,  then  the  case, 
And  thus  broke  out — "  My  Lord,  why,  what  the 

devil ! 
Zounds!  damn  the  lock!  'fore  Gad,  you  must  be 

civil. 

Plague  on  't !  'tis  past  a  jest — nay  prithee,  pox ! 
Give  her  the  hair  " — he  spoke,  and  rapped  his  box. 

"  It  grieves  me  much,"  replied  the  peer  again, 
"  Who  speaks  so  well  should  ever  speak  in  vain, 
But  by  this  lock,  this  sacred  lock  I  swear, 
(Which  never  more  shall  join  its  parted  hair; 
Which  never  more  its  honours  shall  renew, 
Clipped  from  the  lovely  head  where  late  it  grew) 
That,  while  my  nostrils  draw  the  vital  air, 
This  hand,  which  won  it,  shall  for  ever  wear." 
He  spoke,  and  speaking,  in  proud  triumph  spread 
The  long-contended  honours  of  her  head. 

But  Umbriel,  hateful  gnome!  forbears  not  so; 
He  breaks  the  phial  whence  the  sorrows  flow. 
Then  see!  the  nymph  in  beauteous  grief  appears, 
Her  eyes  half -languishing,  half -drowned  in  tears ; 
On  her  heaved  bosom  hung  her  drooping  head, 


ALEXANDER  POPE  179 

Which,  with  a  sigh,  she  raised ;  and  thus  she  said. 

"  For  ever  cursed  be.  this  detested  day, 

Which  snatched  my  best,  my  fav'rite  curl  away! 

Happy!  ah  ten  times  happy  had  I  been, 

If  Hampton-Court  these  eyes  had  never  seen! 

Yet  am  not  I  the  first  mistaken  maid, 

By  love  of  courts  to  num'rous  ills  betrayed. 

Oh  had  I  rather  unadmired  remained 

In  some  lone  isle,  or  distant  northern  land, 

Where  the  gilt  chariot  never  marks  the  way, 

Where  none  learn  ombre,  none  e'er  taste  bohea ! 

There  kept  my  charms  concealed  from  mortal  eye, 

Like  roses,  that  in  deserts  bloom  and  die. 

What  moved  my  mind  with  youthful  lords  to 

roam? 

Oh  had  I  stayed,  and  said  my  pray'rs  at  home! 
'Twas  this,  the  morning  omens  seemed  to  tell, 
Thrice  from  my  trembling  hand  the  patch-box 

fell; 

The  tott'ring  china  shook  without  a  wind, 
Nay,  Poll  sat  mute,  and  Shock  was  most  unkind ! 
A  sylph  too  warned  me  of  the  threats  of  fate, 
In  mystic  visions,  now.  believed  too  late ! 
See  the  poor  remnants  of  these  slighted  hairs! 
My  hands  shall  rend  what  ev'n  thy  rapine  spares: 
These  in  two  sable  ringlets  taught  to  break, 
Once  gave  new  beauties  to  the  snowy  neck; 
The  sister-lock  now  sits  uncouth,  alone, 
And  in  its  fellow's  fate  foresees  its  own; 
Uncurled  it  hangs,  the  fatal  shears  demands, 
And  tempts,  once  more,  thy  sacrilegious  hands. 
Oh  hadst  thou,  cruel !  been  content  to  seize 
Hairs  less  in  sight,  or  any  hairs  but  these ! " 


180  DBYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

CANTO  V. 

She  said:  the  pitying  audience  melt  in  tears, 
But  fate  and  Jove  had  stopped  the  baron's  ears. 
In  vain  Thalestris  with  reproach  assails. 
For  who  can  move  when  'fair  Belinda  fails? 
Xot  half  so  fixed  the  Trojan  could  remain, 
While  Anna  begged  and  Dido  raged  in  vain. 
Then  grave  Clarissa  graceful  waved  her  fan ; 
Silence  ensued,  and  thus  the  nymph  began: 
"  Say,  why  are  beauties  praised  and  honoured 

most, 

The  wise  man's  passion,  and  the  vain  man:s  toast  ? 
Why  decked  with  all  that  land  and  sea  afford, 
Why  angels  called,  and  angel-like  adored? 
Why  round  our  coaches  crowd  the  white-gloved 

beaux, 

Why  bows  the  side-box  from  its  inmost  rows? 
How  vain  are  all  these  glories,  all  our  pains, 
Unless  good  sense  preserve  what  beauty  gains; 
That  men  may  say,  when  we  the  front  box  grace, 
Behold  the  first  in  virtue  as  in  face! 
Oh !  if  to  dance  all  night,  and  dress  all  day, 
Charmed  the  small-po'x,  or  chased  old  age  away; 
Who  would  not  scorn  what  housewife's  cares  pro- 
duce, 

Or  who  would  learn  one  earthly  thing  of  use? 
To  patch,  nay  ogle,  might  become  a  saint, 
Nor  could  it  sure  be  such  a  sin  to  paint. 
But  since,  alas!  frail  beauty  must  decay. 
Curled  or  uncurled,  since  locks  will  turn  to  gray; 
Since  painted,  or  not  painted,  all  shall  fade. 
And  she  who  scorns  a  man,  must  die  a  maid ; 
What  then  remains  but  well  our  pow'r  to  use, 
And  keep  good-humour,  still  whate'er  we  lose? 
And  trust  me,  dear!  good-humour  can  prevail. 
When  airs,  and  flights,  and  screams,  and  scolding 
fail. 


ALEXANDER  POPE  181 

Beauties  in  vain  their  pretty  eyes  may  roll; 
Charms  strike  the  sight,  but  merit  wins  the  soul." 

So  spoke  the  dame,  but  no  applause  ensued; 
Belinda  frowned,  Thalestris  called  her  prude. 
"  To  arms,  to  arms !  "  the  fierce  virago  cries, 
And  swift  as  lightning  to  the  combat  flies. 
All  side  in  parties,  and  begin  th'  attack; 
Fans   clap,   silks   rustle,   and   tough  whalebones 

crack ; 

Heroes'  and  heroines'  shouts  confus'dly  rise, 
And  base  and  treble  voices  strike  the  skies. 
No  common  weapons  in  their  hands  are  found, 
Like  gods  they  fight,  nor  dread  a  mortal  wound. 

So  when  bold  Homer  makes  the  gods  engage, 
And  heav'nly  breasts  with  human  passions  rage; 
'Gainst  Pallas,  Mars;  Latona,  Hermes  arms; 
And  all  Olympus  rings  with  loud  alarms: 
Jove's  thunder  roars,  heav'n  trembles  all  around, 
Blue   Neptune  storms,   the  bellowing   deeps   re- 
sound : 
Earth  shakes  her  nodding  tow'rs,  the  ground  gives 

way, 
And  the  pale  ghosts  start  at  the  flash  of  day! 

Triumphant  tlmbriel  on  a  sconce's  height 
Clapped  his  glad  wings,  and  sate  to  view  the 

fight. 

Propped  on  their  bodkin  spears,  the  sprites  survey 
The  growing  combat,  or  assist  the  fray. 
While   through   the   press   enraged   Thalestria 

flies, 

And  scatters  death  around  from  both  her  eyes, 
A  beau  and  witling  perished  in  the  throng, 
One  died  in  metaphor,  and  one  in  song. 
"  O  cruel  nymph !  a  living  death  I  bear," 
Cried  Dapperwit.  and  sunk  beside  his  chair. 
A  mournful  glance  Sir  Fopling  upward  cast, 
"  Those  eyes  are  made  so  killing  " — was  his  last. 


182  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

Thus  on  Meander's  flow'ry  margin  lies 
Th'  expiring  swan,  and  as  he  sings  he  dies. 

When    bold    Sir   Plume    had    drawn    Clarissa 

down, 

Chloe  stepped  in,  and  killed  him  with  a  frown; 
She  smiled  to  see  the  doughty  hero  slain, 
But,  at  her  smile,  the  beau  revived  again. 

Now  Jove  suspends  his  golden  scales  in  air, 
Weighs  the  men's  wits  against  the  lady's  hair; 
The  doubtful  beam  long  nods  from  side  to  side ; 
At  length  the  wits  mount  up,  the  hairs  subside. 

See  fierce  Belinda  on  the  baron  flies, 
With  more  than  usual  lightning  in  her  eyes : 
Nor  fear'd  the  chief  th'  unequal  fight  to  try, 
Who  sought  no  more  than  on  his  foe  to  die. 
But  this  bold  lord  with  manly  strength  endued, 
She  with  one  finger  and  a  thumb  subdued; 
Just  where  the  breath  of  life  his  nostrils  drew, 
A  charge  of  snuff  the  wily  virgin  threw ; 
The  gnomes  direct,  to  ev'ry  atom  just, 
The  pungent  grains  of  titillating  dust. 
Sudden,  with  starting  tears  each  eye  o'erflows, 
And  the  high  dome  re-echoes  to  his  nose. 

"  Now  meet  thy  fate,"  incensed  Belinda  cried, 
And  drew  a  deadly  bodkin  from  her  side. 
(The  same,  his  ancient  personage  to  deck, 
Her  great-great-grandsire  wore  about  his  neck, 
In  three  seal-rings;  which  after,  melted  down, 
Formed  a  vast  buckle  for  his  widow's  gown : 
Her  infant  grandame's  whistle  next  it  grew, 
The  bells  she  jingled,  and  the  whistle  blew; 
Then  in  a  bodkin  graced  her  mother's  hairs, 
Which  long  she  wore,  and  now  Belinda  wears.) 

"  Boast  not  my  fall,"  he  cried,  "  insulting  foe  I 
Thou  by  some  other  shalt  be  laid  as  low : 
Nor  think,  to  die  dejects  my  lofty  mind; 
All  that  I  dread  is  leaving  you  behind! 


ALEXANDER  POPE  183 

Rather  than  so,  ah  let  me  still  survive, 

And  burn  in  Cupid's  flames — but  burn  alive." 

"  Restore  the  lock !  "  she  cries ;  and  all  around 
"  Restore  the  lock !  "  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound 
Not  fierce  Othello  in  so  loud  a  strain 
Roared  for  the  handkerchief  that  caused  his  pain. 
But  see  how  oft'  ambitious  aims  are  crossed, 
And  chiefs  contend  till  all  the  prize  is  lost! 
The  lock,  obtained  with  guilt,  and  kept  with  pain, 
In  ev'ry  place  is  sought,  but  sought  in  vain: 
With  such  a  prize  no  mortal  must  be  blest, 
So  heav'n  decrees :  with  heav'n  who  can  contest  ? 

Some  thought  it  mounted  to  the  lunar  sphere, 
Since  all  things  lost  on  earth  are  treasured  there. 
There  heroes'  wits  are  kept  in  pond'rous  vases, 
And  beaus'  in  snuff-boxes  and  tweezer-cases. 
There  broken  vows,  and  death-bod  alms  are  found, 
And  lovers'  hearts  with  ends  of  ribbon  bound, 
The  courtier's  promises,  and  sick  man's  pray'rs. 
The  smiles  of  harlots,  and  the  tears  of  heirs, 
Cages  for  gnats,  and  chains  to  yoke  a  flea, 
Dried  butterflies,  and  tomes  of  casuistry. 

But  trust  the  Muse — she  saw  it  upward  rise, 
Tho'  mark'd  by  none  but  quick,  poetic  eyes : 
(So  Rome's  great  founder  to  the  heav'ns  with- 
drew, 

To  Proculus  alone  confessed  in  view) 
A  sudden  star,  it  shot  through  liquid  air, 
And  drew  behind  a  radiant  trail  of  hair. 
Not  Berenice's  locks  first  rose  so  bright, 
The  heav'ns  bespangling  with  disheveled  light. 
The  sylphs  behold  it  kindling  as  it  flies, 
And  pleased  pursue  its  progress  through  the  skies. 

This   the   beau    monde   shall   from   the   Mall 

survey, 

And  hail  with  music  its  propitious  ray; 
This  the  bless'd  lover  shall  for  Venus  take, 


184  DBYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

And  send  up  vows  from  Rosamonda's  lake; 
This  Partridge  soon  shall  view  in  cloudless  skies, 
When  next  he  looks  through  Galileo's  eyes; 
And  hence  th'  egregious  wizard  shall  foredoom 
The  fate  of  Louis,  and  the  fall  of  Rome. 

Then  cease,  bright  nymph !  to  mourn  thy  rav- 
ished hair, 

Which  adds  new  glory  to  the  shining  sphere! 
Not  all  the  tresses  that  fair  head  can  boast, 
Shall  draw  such  envy  as  the  Lock  you  lost. 
For  after  all  the  murders  of  your  eye, 
When,  after  millions  slain,  yourself  shall  die; 
When  those  fair  suns  shall  set,  as  set  they  must 
And  all  those  tresses  shall  be  laid  in  dust, 
This  lock  the  Muse  shall  consecrate  to  fame, 
And  'midst  the  stars  inscribe  Belinda's  name. 


ELEGY  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  AN  UNFORTU- 
NATE LADY. 

(1717) 

What  beck'ning  ghost,  along  the  moon-light  shade 

Invites  my  steps,  and  points  to  yonder  glade? 

'Tis  she! — but  why  that  bleeding  bosom  gored? 

Why  dimly  gleams  the  visionary  sword? 

Oh  ever  beauteous,  ever  friendly !  tell, 

Is  it,  in  heav'n,  a  crime  to  love  too  well? 

To  bear  too  tender,  or  too  firm  a  heart, 

To  act  a  lover's  or  a  Roman's  part  ? 

Is  there  no  bright  reversion  in  the  sky, 

For  those  who  greatly  think,  or  bravely  die? 

Why  bade  ye  else,  ye  pow'rs !  her  soul  aspire 
Above  the  vulgar  flight  of  low  desire  ? 
Ambition  first  sprung  from  your  blessed  abodes; 
The  glorious  fault  of  angels  and  of  gods : 
Thence  to  their  images  on  earth  it  flows. 
And  in  the  breasts  of  kings  and  heroes  glows. 


ALEXANDER  POPE  185 

Most  souls,  'tis  true,  but  peep  out  once  an  age, 
Dull  sullen  pris'ners  in  the  body's  cage: 
Dim  lights  of  life,  that  burn  a  length  of  years 
Useless,  unseen,  as  lamps  in  sepulchres; 
Like  Eastern  kings  a  lazy  state  they  keep, 
And,  close  confined  to  their  own  palace,  sleep. 

From  these  perhaps  (ere  nature  bade  her  die) 
Fate  snatched  her  early  to  the  pitying  sky. 
As  into  air  the  purer  spirits  flow, 
And  sep'rate  from  their  kindred  dregs  below; 
So  flew  the  soul  to  its  congenial  place, 
Nor  left  one  virtue  to  redeem  her  race. 

But  thou,  false  guardian  of  a  charge  too  good, 
Thou  mean  deserter  of  thy  brother's  blood! 
See  on  these  ruby  lips  the  trembling  breath, 
These  cheeks  now  fading  at  the  blast  of  death; 
Cold  is  that  breast  which  warmed  the  world  be- 
fore, 

And  those  love-darting  eyes  must  roll  no  more. 
Thus,  if  eternal  justice  rules  the  ball, 
Thus  shall  your  wives,  and  thus  your  children 

fall: 

On  all  the  line  a  sudden  vengeance  waits, 
And  frequent  hearses  shall  besiege  your  gates; 
Their  passengers  shall  stand,  and  pointing  say, 
(While  the  long  fun'rals  blacken  all  the  way) 
"Lo!   these  were  they,   whose   souls   the   furies 

steeled, 
"And    cursed    with    hearts    unknowing    how    to 

yield." 

Thus  unlamented  passed  the  proud  away, 
The  gaze  of  fools,  and  pageant  of  a  day ! 
So  perish  all,  whose  breast  ne'er  learned  to  glow 
For  others'  good,  or  melt  at  others'  woe. 

What  can  atone,  oh  ever-injured  shade! 
Thy  fate  unpitied,  and  thy  rites  unpaid  ? 
No  friend's  complaint,  no  kind  domestic  tear 


186  DEYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

Pleased  thy  pale  ghost,  or  graced  thy  mournful 

bier. 

By  foreign  hands  thy  dying  eyes  were  closed, 
By  foreign  hands  thy  decent  limbs  composed, 
By  foreign  hands  thy  humble  grave  adorned, 
By  strangers  honoured  and  by  strangers  mourned ! 
What  though  no  friends  in  sable  weeds  appear, 
Grieve  for  an  hour,  perhaps,  then  mourn  a  year, 
And  bear  about  the. mockery  of  woe 
To  midnight  dances,  and  the  public  show? 
What  though  no  weeping  loves  thy  ashes  grace, 
Nor  polished  marble  emulate  thy  face? 
What  though  no  sacred  earth  allow  thee  room, 
Nor  hallowed  dirge  be  muttered  o'er  thy  tomb? 
Yet  shall  thy  grave  with  rising  flowers  be  dressed, 
And  the  green  turf  lie  lightly  on  thy  breast : 
There  shall  the  morn  her  earliest  tears  bestow, 
There  the  first  roses  of  the  year  shall  blow; 
While  angels  with  their  silver  wings  o'ershade 
The  ground,  now  sacred  by  thy  reliques  made. 

So  peaceful  rests,  without  a  stone,  a  name, 
What  once  had  beauty,  titles,  wealth,  and  fame. 
How  loved,  how  honoured  once,  avails  thee  not, 
To  whom  related,  or  by  whom  begot; 
A  heap  of  dust  alone  remains  of  thoo; 
'Tis  all  thou  art,  and  all  the  proud  shall  be! 

Poets  themselves  must  fall  like  those  they  sung, 
Deaf    the    praised    ear,    and    mute    the    tuneful 

tongue. 

Even  he,  whose  soul  now  melts  in  mournful  lays, 
Shall  shortly  want  the  gen'rous  tear  he  pays; 
Then  from  his  closing  eyes  thy  form  shall  part, 
And  the  last  pang  shall  tear  thee  from  his  heart, 
Life's  idle  business  at  one  gasp  be  o'er, 
The  muse  forgot,  and  thou  beloved  no  more ! 


ALEXANDER  POPE  187 

UNIVERSAL  PRAYER 
(Published   1738) 

Father  of  all !  in  ev'ry  age, 

In  ev'ry  clime  adored, 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord ! 

Thou  Great  First  Cause,  least  understood! 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this,  that  Thou  art  good, 
And  that  myself  am  blind; 

Yet  gave  me  in  this  dark  estate, 

To  see  the  good  from  ill: 
And  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do, 
This  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 

That,  more  than  heav'n  pursue. 

What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives 

Let  me  not  cast  away; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives : 

T'  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 

Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 
Or  think  Thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 

When  thousand  worlds  are  round: 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 

Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw, 
And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 

On  each  I  judge  thy  foe. 


188  DRYDEN  TO  THOMSON 

If  I  am  right,  thy  grace  impart 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay : 
If  I  am  wrong,  oh  teach  my  heart 

To  find  that  better  way. 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride, 

Or  impious  discontent, 
At  aught  thy  wisdom  has  denied, 

Or  aught  thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

Mean  though  I  am,  not  wholly  so, 
Since  quickened  by  thy  breath : 

Oh  lead  me  wheresoe'er  I  go, 

Through  this  day's  life  or  death. 

This  day  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot: 

All  else  beneath  the  sun, 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestowed  or  not, 

And  let  thy  will  be  done. 

To  Thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space, 
Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies, 

One  chorus  let  all  being  raise; 
All  nature's  incense  rise! 

EPISTLE  TO  DR.  ARBUTHNOT 

BEING   THE   PROLOGUE  TO  THE  SATIRES 

(Published  1735) 

P.  Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John!  fatigued  I  said: 
Tie  up  the  knocker,  say  I'm  sick,  I'm  dead. 
The  Dog-star  rages!  nay,  'tis  past  a  doubt, 
All  Bedlam,  or  Parnassus  is  let  out: 


ALEXANDER  POPE  189 

Fire  in  each  eye,  and  papers  in  each  hand, 
They  rave,  recite,  and  madden  round  the  land. 
What  walls  can  guard  me,  or  what  shades  can 

hide? 
They  pierce  my  thickets,  through  my  grot  they 

glide, 

By  land,  by  water,  they  renew  the  charge, 
They  stop  the  chariot,  and  they  board  the  barge. 
No  place  is  sacred,  not  the  church  is  free, 
Ev'n  Sunday  shines  no  Sabbath-day  to  me: 
Then   from  the  Mint  walks   forth  the  man  of 

rhyme, 
Happy!  to  catch  me,  just  at  dinner-time. 

Is  there  a  parson,  much  be-mus'd  in  beer, 
A  maudlin  poetess,  a  rhyming  peer; 
A  clerk,  foredoomed  his  father's  soul  to  cross, 
Who  pens  a  stanza,  when  he  should  engross? 
Is  there,  who,  locked  from  ink  and  paper,  scrawls 
With    desperate    charcoal    round    his    darkened 

walls  ? 

All  fly  to  Twit'nam,  and  in  humble  strain 
Apply  to  me,  to  keep  them  mad  or  vain. 
Arthur,  whose  giddy  son  neglects  the  laws, 
Imputes  to  me  and  my  damned  works  the  cause: 
Poor  Cornus  sees  his  frantic  wife  elope, 
And  curses  wit,  and  poetry,  and  Pope. 

Friend  to  my  life !  (which  did  not  you  prolong, 
The  world  had  wanted  many  an  idle  song), 
What  drop  or  nostrum  can  this  plague  remove? 
Or  which  must  end  me,  a  fool's  wrath  or  love? 
A  dire  dilemma !  either  way  I'm  sped, 
If  foes,  they  write,  if  friends,  they  read  me  dead. 
Seized  and  tied  down  to  judge,  how  wretched  IJ 
Who  can't  be  silent,  and  who  will  not  lie: 
To  laugh,  were  want  of  goodness  and  of  grace, 
And  to  be  grave,  exceeds  all  power  of  face. 
I  sit  with  sad  civility,  I  read 


190  DRYDEN   TO  THOMSON 

With  honest  anguish,  and  an  aching  head; 
And  .drop  at  last,  but  in  unwilling  ears, 
This    saving    counsel — "  Keep    your    piece    nine 
years." 

"  Nine  years !  "  cries  he,  who,  high  in  Drury 

Lane, 

Lulled  by  soft  zephyrs  through  the  broken  pane, 
Rhymes  ere  he  wakes,  and  prints  before  Term 

ends, 
Obliged  by  hunger  and  request  of  friends: 

"  The  piece  you  think  is  incorrect  ?  why  take  it ; 
I'm  all  submission;  what  you'd  have  it,  make  it." 

Three  things  another's  modest  wishes  bound, 
My  friendship,  and  a  prologue,  and  ten  pound. 

Pitholeon  sends  to  me :  "  You  know  his  grace, 
I  want  a  patron ;  ask  him  for  a  place." 
Pitholeon  libelled  me — "  but  here's  a  letter 
Informs  you,  sir,  'twas  when  he  knew  no  better. 
Dare  you  refuse  him?     Curll  invites  to  dine; 
He'll  write  a  journal,  or  he'll  turn  divine." 

Bless  me !  a  packet.     "  'Tis  a  stranger  sues, 
A  virgin  tragedy,  an  orphan  Muse." 
If  I  dislike  it,  "  Furies,  death,  and  rage !  " 
If  I  approve,  "  Commend  it  to  the  stage." 
There   (thank  my  stars)   my  whole  commission 

ends, 

The  players  and  I  are,  luckily,  no  friends. 
Fired  that  the  house  reject  him,  "  'Sdeath  I'll 

print  it, 
And  shame  the  fools — your    interest,   sir,  with 

Lintot." 
Lintot,    dull   rogue,   will   think   your   price   too 

much  : 

"  Not,  sir,  if  you  revise  it,  and  retouch." 
All  my  demurs  but  double  his  attacks : 
At  last  he  whispers,  "  Do ;  and  we  go  snacks." 
Glad  of  a  quarrel,  straight  I  clap  the  door: 


ALEXANDER  POPE  191 

K  Sir,  let  me  see  your  works  and  you  no  more." 

One  dedicates  in  high  heroic  prose, 
And  ridicules  beyond  a  hundred  foes: 
One  from  all  Grubstreet  will  my  fame  defend, 
And,  more  abusive,  calls  himself  my  friend. 
This  prints  my  letters,  that  expects  a  bribe, 
And  others  roar  aloud,  "  Subscribe,  subscribe !  " 

There  are  who  to  my  person  pay  their  court: 
I  cough  like  Horace,  and,  though  lean,  am  short. 
Ammon's  great  son  one  shoulder  had  too  high,— 
Such  Ovid's  nose, — and,  "  sir,  you  have  an  eye." 
Go  on,  obliging  creatures,  make  me  see 
All  that  disgraced  my  betters  met  in  me. 
Say,  for  my  comfort,  languishing  in  bed, 
"  Just  so  immortal  Maro  held  his  head :  " 
And,  when  I  die,  be  sure  you  let  me  know 
Great  Homer  died  three  thousand  years  ago. 

Why  did  I  write?  what  sin  to  me  unknown 
Dipped  me  in  ink,  my  parents',  or  my  own? 
As  yet  a  child,  nor  yet  a  fool  to  fame, 
I  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came. 
I  left  no  calling  for  this  idle  trade, 
No  duty  broke,  no  father  disobeyed : 
The  muse  but  served  to  ease  some  friend,  not  wife, 
To  help  me  through  this  long  disease,  my  life; 
To  second,  Arbuthnot!  thy  art  and  care, 
And  teach  the  being  you  preserved  to  bear. 

Soft  were  my  numbers;  who  could  take  offence 
While  pure  description  held  the  place  of  sense? 

Did  some  more  sober  critic  come  abroad — 
If  wrong,  I  smiled ;  if  right,  I  kissed  the  rod. 
Pains,  reading,  study,  are  their  just  pretence, 
And  all  they  want  is  spirit,  taste,  and  sense. 
Commas  and  points  they  set  exactly  right, 


192  DRYDEN   TO  THOMSON 

And  't  were  a  sin  to  rob  them  of  their  mite. 

Were  others  angry — I  excused  them  too; 
Well  might  they  rage,  I  gave  them  but  their  due. 
A  man's  true  merit  'tis  not  hard  to  find ; 
But  each  man's  secret  standard  in  his  mind, 
That  casting-weight  pride  adds  to  emptiness, 
This,  who  can  gratify,  for  who  can  guess? 
The  bard  whom  pilfered  Pastorals  renown, 
Who  turns  a  Persian  tale  for  half-a-crown, 
Just  writes  to  make  his  barrenness  appear, 
And  strains  from  hard-bound  brains,  eight  lines 

a-year ; 

He,  who  still  wanting,  though  he  lives  on  theft, 
Steals  much,  spends  little,  yet  has  nothing  left : 
And  he,  who  now  to  sense,  now  nonsense  leaning, 
Means  not,  but  blunders  round  about  a  meaning- : 
And  he,  whose  fustian's  so  sublimely  bad, 
It  is  not  poetry  but  prose  run  mad: 
All  these,  my  modest  satire  bade  translate, 
And  owned  that  nine  such  poets  made  a  Tate. 
How  did  they  fume,  and  stamp,  and  roar,  and 

chafe ! 
And  swear,  not  Addison  himself  was  safe. 

Peace  to  all  such!  but  were  there  one  whose 

fires 

True  genius  kindles,  and  fair  fame  inspires; 
Blest  with  each  talent,  and  each  art  to  please, 
And  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with  ease : 
Should  such  a  man,  too  fond  to  rule  alone, 
Bear,  like  the  Turk,  no  brother  near  the  throne, 
View  him  with  scornful,  yet  with  jealous  eyes, 
And  hate  for  arts  that  caused  himself  to  rise ; 
Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer, 
And  without  sneering,  teach  the  rest  to  sneer; 
Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike, 
Just  hint  a  fault,  and  hesitate  dislike, 


ALEXANDER  POPE  193 

Alike  reserved  to  blame,  or  to  commend, 
A  timorous  foe,  and  a  suspicious  friend; 
Dreading  e'en  fools,  by  flatterers  besieged, 
And  so  obliging,  that  he  ne'er  obliged; 
Like  Cato,  give  his  little  senate  laws, 
And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause; 
While  wits  and  templars  every  sentence  raise, 
And  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise — 
Who  but  must  laugh,  if  such  a  man  there  be? 
Who  would  not  weep,  if  Atticus  were  he? 


PART  FOURTH 
THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

dr.  1730-Ci>.  1830 

3ames  Ubomson 

1700-1748 

SPRING 

(1728) 
(From  TJie  Seasons) 

Come,  gentle  Spring,  etherial  mildness,  come, 
And  from  the  bosom  of  yon  dropping  cloud, 
While  music  wakes  around,  veil'd  in  a  shower 
Of  shadowing  roses,  on  our  plains  descend. 

And  see  where  surly  Winter  passes  off, 
Far  to  the  north,  and  calls  his  ruffian  blasts: 
His  blasts  obey,  and  quit  the  howling  hill, 
The  shatter'd  forest,  and  the  ravag'd  vale; 
While  softer  gales  succeed,  at  whose  kind  touch, 
Dissolving  snows  in  livid  torrents  lost, 
The  mountains  lift  their  green  heads  to  the  sky. 
As  yet  the  trembling  year  is  unconfirm'd, 
And  Winter  oft  at  eve  resumes  the  breeze, 
Chills  the  pale  morn,  and  bids  his  driving  sleets 
Deform  the  day  delightless;  so  that  scarce 
The  bittern  knows  his  time,  with  bill  engulfd 

196 


196  JAMES  THOMSON 

To  shake  the  sounding  marsh;  or  from  the  shore 
The  plovers  when  to  scatter  o'er  the  heath, 
And  sing  their  wild  notes  to  the  listening  waste. 
At  last  from  Aries  rolls  the  bounteous  Sun, 
And  the  bright  Bull  receives  him.     Then  no  more 
Th'  expansive  atmosphere  is  cramp'd  with  cold; 
But,  full  of  life  and  vivifying  soul, 
Lifts  the  light  clouds  sublime,  and  spreads  them 

thin, 

Fleecy  and  white,  o'er  all-surrounding  heaven. 
Forth  fly  the  tepid  airs;  and  unconfin'd, 
Unbinding  earth,  the  moving  softness  strays. 
Joyous,  the  impatient  husbandman  perceives 
Relenting  Nature,  and  his  lusty  steers 
Drives  from  their  stalls,  to  where  the  well-us'd 

plough 

Lies  in  the  furrow,  loosen'd  from  the  frost. 
There,  unrefusing,  to  the  harness'd  yoke 
They  lend  their  shoulder,  and  begin  their  toil, 
Cheer'd  by  the  simple  song,  and  soaring  lark. 
Meanwhile  incumbent  o'er  the  shining  share 
The  master  leans,  removes  th'  obstructing  clay, 
Winds   the  whole  work,   and   sidelong   lays   the 

glebe. 
While  thro'  the  neighb'ring  fields   the  sower 

stalks, 

With  measur'd  step;  and  liberal  throws  the  grain 
Into  the  faithful  bosom  of  the  ground: 
The  harrow  follows  harsh,  and  shuts  the  scene. 
Be  gracious,  Heaven!  for  now  laborious  Man 
Has  done  his  part.     Ye  fostering  breezes,  blow! 
Ye  softening  dews,  ye  tender  showers,  descend ! 
And  temper  all,  thou  world-reviving  sun, 
Into  the  perfect  year!    Nor  ye  who  live 
Tn  luxury  and  ease,  in  pomp  and  pride, 
Think  these  lost  themes  unworthy  of  your  ear: 
Such  themes  as  these  the  rural  Maro  sung 


THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON  19V 

To  wide  imperial  Rome,  in  the  full  height 

Of  elegance  and  taste,  by  Greece  refin'd. 

In  ancient  times,  the  sacred  plough  employ'd 

The  kings  and  awful  fathers  of  mankind : 

And  some,  with  whom  compar'd  your  insect-tribes 

Are  but  the  beings  of  a  summer's  day, 

Have  held  the  scale  of  empire,  rul'd  the  storm 

Of  mighty  war;  then,  with  victorious  hand, 

Disdaining  little  delicacies,  seiz'd 

The  plough,  and  greatly  independent,  scorn'd 

All  the  vile  stores  Corruption  can  bestow. 

Ye  generous  Britons,  venerate  the  plough; 
And  o'er  your  hills,  and  long-withdrawing  vales, 
Let  Autumn  spread  his  treasures  to  the  sun, 
Luxuriant  and  unbounded :  as  the  Sea, 
Far  thro'  his  azure  turbulent  domain, 
Your  empire  owns,  and  from  a  thousand  shores 
Wafts  all  the  pomp  of  life  into  your  ports ; 
So  with  superior  boon  may  your  rich  soil, 
Exuberant,  Nature's  better  blessings  pour 
O'er  every  land,  the  naked  nations  clothe, 
And  be  th'  exhaustless  granary  of  a  world! 

From  the  moist  meadow  to  the  wither'd  hill, 
Led  by  the  breeze,  the  vivid  verdure  runs 
And  swells,  and  deepens,  to  the  cherish'd  eye. 
The  hawthorn  whitens ;  and  the  juicy  groves 
Put  forth  their  buds,  unfolding  by  degrees, 
Till  the  whole  leafy  forest  stands  display'd, 
In  full  luxuriance  to  the  sighing  gales; 
Where  the  deer  rustle  through  the  twining  brake, 
And  the  birds  sing  conceal'd.     At  once  array'd 
In  all  the  colours  of  the  flushing  year, 
By  Nature's  swift  and  secret-working  hand, 
The  garden  glows,  and  fills  the  liberal  air 
With  lavish  fragrance;  while  the  promis'd  fruit 
Lies  yet  a  little  embryo,  unperceiv'd, 


198  JAMES  THOMSON 

Within  its  crimson  fold.     Now  from  the  town, 
Buried  in  smoke,  and  sleep,  and  noisome  damps, 
Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  dewy  fields, 
Where  freshness  breathes,   and  dash  the  trem- 
bling  drops 

From  the  bent  bush,  as  thro'  the  verdant  maze 
Of  sweet-briar  hedges  I  pursue  my  walk; 
Or  taste  the  smell  of  dairy,  or  ascend 
Some  eminence,  AUGUSTA,  in  thy  plains, 
And  see  the  country,  far  diffused  around, 
One    boundless     blush,     one    white     empurpled 

shower 

Of  mingled  blossoms;  where  the  raptur'd  eye 
Hurries  from  joy  to  joy,  and,  hid  beneath 
.    The  fair  profusion,  yellow  Autumn  spies. 

SUMMER 

(1727) 

From  brightening  fields  of  ether  fair  clisclos'd, 
Child  of  the  Sun,  refulgent  Summer  comes, 
In  pride  of  youth,  and  felt  through  Nature's 

depth : 

He  comes  attended  by  the  sultry  Hours, 
And  ever-fanning  breezes,  on  his  way; 
While,  from  his  ardent  look,  the  turning  Spring, 
Averts  her  blushful  face;  and  earth,  and  skies, 
All-smiling,  to  his  hot  dominion  leaves. 

Hence,  let  me  haste  into  the  mid-wood  shade, 
Where    scarce    a    sunbeam    wanders    thro'    the 

gloom ; 

And  on  the  dark-green  grass,  beside  the  brink 
Of  haunted  stream,  that  by  the  roots  of  oak 
Rolls  o'er  the  rocky  channel,  lie  at  large, 
And  sing  the  glories  of  the  circling  year. 

Now  swarms  the  village  o'er  the  joyful  mead: 


THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON  199 

The  rustic  youth,  brown  with  meridian  toil, 
Healthful  and  strong;  full  as  the  summer  rose 
Blown  by  prevailing  suns,  the  ruddy  maid, 
Half  naked,  swelling  on  the  sight,  and  all 
Her  kindled  graces  burning  o'er  her  cheek. 
E'en  stooping  age  is  here;  and  infant  hands 
Trail  the  long  rake,  or,  with  the  fragrant  load 
O'ercharg'd,  amid  the  kind  oppression  roll. 
Wide  flies  the  tedded  grain;  all  in  a  row 
Advancing  broad,   or  wheeling  round  the  field, 
They  spread  their  breathing  harvest  to  the  sun, 
That  throws  refreshful  round  a  rural  smell. 
Or,  as  they  take  the  green-appearing  ground, 
And  drive  the  dusky  wave  along  the  mead, 
The  russet  hay-cock  rises  thick  behind, 
In  order  gay:     While,  heard  from  dale  to  dale, 
Waking  the  breeze,  resounds  the  blended  voice 
Of  happy  labour,  love,  and  social  glee. 

Or  rushing  thence,  in  one  diffusive  band, 
They  drive  the  troubled  flocks,  by  many  a  dog 
Compell'd,  to  where  the  mazy-running  brook 
Forms  a  deep  pool :  this  bank  abrupt  and  high, 
And  that  fair  spreading  in  a  pebbled  shore. 
Urg'd  to  the  giddy  brink,  much  is  the  toil, 
The  clamour  much,  of  men,  and  boys,  and  dogs, 
Ere  the  soft  fearful  people  to  the  flood 
Commit  their  woolly  sides.     And  oft  the  swain, 
On  some  impatient  seizing,  hurls  them  in: 
Ernbolden'd  then,  nor  hesitating  more, 
Fast,  fast,  they  plunge  amid  the  flashing  wave, 
And,  panting,  labour  to  the  farther  shore. 
Eepeated  this  till  deep  the  well-wash'd  fleece 
Has  drunk  the  flood,  and  from  his  lively  haunt 
The  trout  is  banish'd  by  the  sordid  stream; 
Heavy,  and  dripping  to  the  breezy  brow 
Slow   move  the  harmless   race;   where,   as   they 
spread 


200  JAMES  THOMSON 

Their  swelling  treasures  to  the  sunny  ray, 
Inly  disturb'd,  and  wond'ring  what  this  wild 
Outrageous  tumult  means,  their  loud  complaints 
The  country  fill;  and,  tost  from  rock  to  rock, 
Incessant  bleatings  run  around  the  hills. 
At  last,  of  snowy  white,  the  gather'd  flocks 
Are  in  the  wattled  pen  innumerous  press'd, 
Head  above  head :  and,  rang'd  in  lusty  rows, 
The  shepherds  sit,  and  whet  the  sounding  shears. 
The  housewife  waits  to  roll  her  fleecy  stores, 
With  all  her  gay-drest  maids  attending  round. 
One,  chief,  in  gracious  dignity  enthron'd, 
Shines  o'er  the  rest,  the  pastoral  queen,  and  rays 
Her  smiles,  sweet  beaming,  on  her  shepherd  king; 
While  the  glad  circle  round  them  yield  their  souls 
To  festive  mirth,  and  wit  that  knows  no  gall. 

AUTUMN 
(1730) 

Crown'd  with  the  sickle  and  the  wheaten  sheaf, 
While  Autumn,  nodding  o'er  the  yellow  plain, 
Conies  jovial  on;  the  Doric  reed  once  more, 
Well  pleas'd,  I  tune.     Whate'er  the  Wintry  frost 
Nitrous  prepar'd,  the  various-blossom'd  Spring 
Put  in  white  promise  forth;  and  Summer's  suns 
Concocted  strong;  rush  boundless  now  to  view, 
Full,  perfect  all,  and  swell  my  glorious  theme. 

But  see,  the  fading  many-colour'd  woods, 
Shade  deepening  over  shade,  the  country  round 
Imbrown ;   a  crowded  umbrage,  dusk,   and  dun, 
Of  every  hue,  from  wan  declining  green 
To  sooty  dark.     These  now  the  lonesome  Muse, 
Low- whispering,     lead     into     their     leaf-strown 

walks, 
And  give  the  season  in  its  latest  view. 

Meantime,  light  shadowing  all,  a  sober  calm 


JAMES  THOMSON  201 

Fleeces  unbounded  ether;  whose  least  wave 
Stands  tremulous,  uncertain  where  to  turn 
The  gentle  current;  while,  illumin'd  wide, 
The  dewy-skirted  clouds  imbibe  the  sun, 
And  thro'  their  lucid  veil  his  soften'd  force 
Shed  o'er  the  peaceful  world.     Then  is  the  time, 
For    those    whom    Wisdom    and    whom    Nature 

charm, 

To  steal  themselves  from  the  degenerate  crowd, 
And  soar  above  this  little  scene  of  things; 
To  tread  low-thoughted  Vice  beneath  their  feet; 
To  soothe  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace, 
And  woo  lone  Quiet  in  her  silent  walks. 

Thus  solitary,  and  in  pensive  guise, 
Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  russet  mead, 
And  thro'  the  sadden'd  grove,  where  scarce  is 

heard 

One  dying  strain,  to  cheer  the  woodman's  toil. 
Haply  some  widow'd  songster  pours  his  plaint, 
Far,  in  faint  warblings,  thro'  the  tawny  copse; 
While  congregated  thrushes,  linnets,  larks, 
And  each  wild  throat,  whose  artless  strains  so 

late 

Swell'd  all  the  music  of  the  swarming  shades, 
Robb'd  of  their  tuneful  souls,  now  shivering  sit 
On  the  dead  tree,  a  dull  despondent  flock; 
With  not  a  brightness  waving  o'er  their  plumes, 
And  nought  save  chattering  discord  in  their  note. 
Oh,  let  not,  aim'd  from  some  inhuman  eye, 
The  gun  the  music  of  the  coming  year 
Destroy;  and  harmless,  unsuspecting  harm, 
Lay  the  weak  tribes  a  miserable  prey, 
In  mingled  murder,  fluttering  on  the  ground! 
The  pale  descending  year,  yet  pleasing  still, 
A  gentler  mood  inspires;  for  now  the  leaf 
Incessant  rustles  from  the  mournful  grove; 
Oft  startling  such  as,  studious,  walk  below, 


202  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

And  slowly  circles  thro'  the  waving  air. 
But  should  a  quicker  breeze  amid  the  boughs 
Sob,  o'er  the  sky  the  leafy  deluge  streams; 
Till  chok'd,  and  matted  with  the  dreary  shov.er, 
The  forest-walks,  at  every  rising  gale, 
Roll  wide  the  wither'd  waste,  and  whistle  bleak 
Fled  is  the  blasted  verdure  of  the  fields: 
And,  shrunk  into  their  beds,  the  flowery  race 
Their  sunny  robes  resign.     Even  what  remain'd 
Of  stronger  fruits  fall  from  the  naked  tree; 
And  woods,  fields,  gardens,  orchards,  all  around 
The  desolated  prospect  thrills  the  soul. 

WINTER 

(1726) 

See,  Winter  comes,  to  rule  the  varied  year, 
Sullen  and  sad,  with  all  his  rising  train — 
Vapours,  and  clouds,  and  storms.  Be  these  my 

theme ; 

These,  that  exalt  the  soul  to  solemn  thought, 
And     heavenly      musing.       Welcome,      kindred 

glooms ! 

Congenial  horrors,  hail!     With  frequent  foot. 
Pleas'd  have  I,  in  my  cheerful  morn  of  life, 
When  nurs'd  by  careless  Solitude  I  liv'd, 
And  sung  of  Nature  with  unceasing  joy, — 
Pleas'd    have    I   wander'd   through    your   rough 

domain ; 

Trod  the  pure  virgin-snows,  myself  as  pure; 
Heard  the  winds  roar,  and  the  big  torrent  burst; 
Or  seen  the  deep-fermenting  tempest  brew'd, 
In  the  grim  evening  sky.     Thus  pass'd  the  time, 
Till  through  the  lucid  chambers  pf  the  South 
Look'd  out  the  joyous   Spring,  look'd  out,  and 

smil'd. 


JAMES  THOMSON  203 

The  keener  tempests  come:  and  fuming  dun 
From  all  the  livid  East,  or  piercing  North, 
Thick  clouds  ascend;  in  whose  capacious  womb 
A  vapoury  deluge  lies,  to  snow  congeal'd. 
Heavy  they  roll  their  fleecy  world  along, 
And  the  sky  saddens  with  the  gather'd  storm. 
Thro'  the  hush'd  air  the  whitening  shower  de- 
scends, 

At  first  thin-wavering;  till  at  last  the  flakes 
Fall  broad  and  wide,  and  fast,  dimming  the  day 
With  a  continual  flow.     The  cherish'd  fields 
Put  on  their  winter-robe  of  purest  white. 
'Tis  brightness  all ;  save  where  the  new  snow  malts 
Along  the  mazy  current.     Low  the  woods 
Bow  their  hoar  head;  and,  ere  the  languid  Sun 
Faint  from  the  West  emits  his  evening  ray, 
Earth's  universal  face,  deep-hid,  and  chill, 
Is  one  wild  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide 
The  works  of  Man.     Drooping,  the  labourer-ox 
Stands  cover'd  o'er  with  snow,  and  then  demands 
The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.     The  fowls  of  heaven, 
Tam'd  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 
The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 
Which  Providence  assigns  them.     One  alone, 
The  red-breast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods, 
Wisely  regardful  of  th'  embroiling  sky, 
In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets  leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 
His  annual  visit.    Half  afraid,  he  first 
Against  the  window  beats;  then,  brisk,  alights 
On  the  warm  hearth;  then,  hopping  o'er  the  floor, 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance, 
And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  he  is: 
Till,  more  familiar  grown,  the  table-crumbs 
Attract  his  slender  feet.     The  foodless  wilds 
Pour  forth  their  brown  inhabitants.     The  hare, 
Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  beset 


204  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

By  death  in  various  forms — dark  snares,  and  dogs, 
And  more  unpitying  men — the  garden  seeks, 
Urg'd  on  by  fearless  want.     The  bleating  kind 
Eye  the  bleak  heaven,  and  next   the  glistening 

earth, 

With  looks  of  dumb  despair;  then,  sad-dispers'd. 
Dig  for  the  wither'd  herb  thro'  heaps  of  snow. 

Ah !  little  think  the  gay  licentious  proud, 
Whom  pleasure,  pow'r,  and  affluence  surround; 
They  v.ho  their  thoughtless  hours  in  giddy  mirth 
And  wanton,  often  cruel,  riot  waste; — 
Ah!  little  think  they,  while  they  dance  along, 
How  many  feel,  this  very  moment,  death 
And  all  the  sad  variety  of  pain. 
How  many  sink  in  the  devouring  flood, 
Or  more  devouring  flame;  how  many  bleed, 
By  shameful  variance  betwixt  man  and  man: 
How  many  pine  in  want  and  dungeon  glooms, 
Shut  from  the  common  air,  and  common  use 
Of  their  own  limbs :  How  many  drink  the  cup 
Of  baleful  grief,  or  eat  the  bitter  bread 
Of  misery:  sore  pierc'd  by  wintry  winds, 
How  many  shrink  into  the  sordid  hut 
Of  cheerless  poverty:  how  many  shake 
With  all  the  fiercer  tortures  of  the  mind, — 
Unbounded  passion,  madness,  guilt,  remorse; 
Whence  tumbled  headlong  from  the  height  of  life, 
They  furnish  matter  for  the  tragic  Muse: 
Ev'n  in  the  vale  where  wisdom  loves  to  dwell, 
With    Friendship,    Peace,     and     Contemplation 

join'd, 

How  many,  rack'd  with  honest  passions,  droop 
In  deep-retir'd  distress:  how  many  stand 
Around  the  death-bed  of  their  dearest  friends, 
And  point  the  parting  anguish.     Thought  fond 

man 


JAMES  THOMSON  205 

Of  these,  and  all  the  thousand  nameless  ills, 
That  one  incessant  struggle  render  life, 
One  scene  of  toil,  of  suff'ring,  and  of  fate; 
Vice  in  his  high  career  would  stand  appall'd, 
And  heedless  rambling  Impulse  learn  to  think; 
The  conscious  heart  of  Charity  would  warm, 
And  her  wide  wish  Benevolence  dilate; 
The  social  tear  would  rise,  the  social  sigh; 
And  into  clear  perfection,  gradual  bliss, 
Refining  still,  the  social  passions  work. 
And  here  can  I  forget  the  generous  band, 
Who,     touch'd     with     human     woe,     redressive 

search'd 

Into  the  horrors  of  the  gloomy  jail? 
TJnpitied  and  unheard,  where  misery  moans; 
Where  Sickness  pines;  where  Thirst  and  Hunger 

burn, 

And  poor  Misfortune  feels  the  lash  of  Vice. 
While  in  the  land  of  liberty — the  land 
Whose  every  street  and  public  meeting  glow 
With  open  freedom — little  tyrants  rag'd; 
Snatch'd    the    lean    morsel    from    the    starving 
mouth ; 

Tore  from  cold  wintry  limbs  the  tatter'd  weed; 

Even  robb'd  them  of  the  last  of  comforts,  sleep ; 

The  free-born  Briton  to  the  dungeon  chain'd, 

Or,  as  the  lust  of  cruelty  prevail'd, 

At  pleasure  mark'd  him  with  inglorious  stripes; 

And  crush'd  out  lives,  by  secret  barbarous  ways, 

That  for  their  country  would  have  toil'd,  or  bled. 

Oh  great  design !  if  executed  well, 

With  patient  care  and  wisdom-temper'd  zeal. 

Ye  sons  of  mercy!  yet  resume  the  search; 

Drag  forth  the  legal  monsters  into  light, 

Wrench  from  their  hands  Oppression's  iron  rod, 

And  bid  the  cruel  feel  the  pangs  they  give. 

Much  still  untouch'd  remains;  in  this  rank  age, 


206  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Much  is  the  patriot's  weeding  hand  requir'd. 
The  toils  of  law, — what  dark  insidious  men 
Have  cumbrous  added,  to  perplex  the  truth, 
And  lengthen  simple  justice  into  trade, — 
How  glorious  were  the  day  that  saw  these  broke 
And  every  man  within  the  reach  of  right ! 


RULE  BRITANNIA 

(1740) 

When  Britain  first  at  Heaven's  command 
Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 

This  was  the  charter  of  her  land, 

And  guardian  angels  sung  the  strain: 

Rule,  Britannia!  Britannia  rules  the  waves! 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee 
Must  in  their  turn  to  tyrants  fall, 

While  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame; 

All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 

And  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine; 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 

And  every  shore  it  circles  thine ! 


WILLIAM  COLLINS  207 

The  Muses,  still  with  Freedom  found, 
Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair; 
25  Blest  Isle,  with  matchless  beauty  crown'd 

And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair: — 
Eule,  Britannia!  Britannia  rules  the  waves  I 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves! 


William  Collins 

1721-1759. 

ODE  TO  EVENING 

(From  Odes,  1746) 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 

May  hope,  chaste  eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear, 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales, 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-haired 

sun, 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed: 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat 
With  short,  shrill  shriek,  flits  by  on  leathern 

wing; 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum: 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 

To  breath  some  softened  strain, 


208  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening 

vale, 
May,  not  unseemly,  with  its  stillness  suit, 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return! 

For  when  thy  folding  star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  hours,  and  elves 

Who  slept  in  flowers  the  day, 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with 

sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  pleasures  sweet 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  lead,  calm  votaress,  where  some  sheety  lake 
Cheers  the  lone  heath,  or  some  time-hallowed  pile, 

Or  up-land  fallows  grey 

Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam. 

But  when  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Forbid  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut, 
That  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires; 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he 

wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  eve  I 

While  summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light; 


WILLIAM  COLLINS  209 

While  sallow  autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves; 
Or  winter  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes; 

So  long,  sure-found  beneath  the  sylvan  shed, 
Shall     fancy,     friendship,     science,     rose-lipp'd 
health, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  hymn  thy  favorite  name! 


THE  PASSIONS 

AN  ODE   FOB   MUSIC 

(From  the  same) 

VVheu  music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell, 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possest  beyond  the  muse's  painting: 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined; 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art. 
Each  (for  madness  ruled  the  hour) 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 
First  fear,  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid, 
And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 

Even  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 


210  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Next  anger  rushed;  his  eyes  on  fire, 
In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings: 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept,  with  hurried  hand,  the  strings. 

With  woful  measures  wan  despair 

Low,  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled; 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air; 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  hope,  with  eyes  so  fair, 
What  was  thy  delightful  measure? 

Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 
And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail! 

Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong; 
And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 

She  called  on  echo  still,  through  all  the  song ; 
And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close, 

And  hope  enchanted  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden 
hair. 

And  longer  had  she  sung; — but,  with  a  frown, 
Revenge  impatient  rose: 

He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword,  in  thunder, 

down; 

And  with  a  withering  look, 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 

And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 

Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe! 
And,  ever  and  anon,  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum,  with  furious  heat; 

And  though  sometimes,   each  dreary  pause  be- 
tween, 
Dejected  pity,  at  his  side, 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered  mien, 

While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  burst- 
ing from  his  head. 


WILLIAM   COLLINS  211 

Thy  numbers,  jealousy,  to  naught  were  fixed; 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state; 
Of    differing    themes    the    veering    song    was 

mixed ; 
And  now  it  courted  love,  now  raving  called  on 

hate. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 
Pale  melancholy  sat  retired; 
And,  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat, 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 
Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul : 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 
Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound; 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure 

stole, 

Or,  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond  delay, 
Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing, 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 
But  O!  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone, 
When  cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 
Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, 

The  hunter's  call,  to  faun  and  dryad  known! 
The  oak-crowned  sisters,   and  their  chaste-eyed 

queen, 

Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen, 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green: 
Brown  exercise  rejoiced  to  hear; 

And  sport  leapt  up,  and  seized  his  beechen 

spear. 

Last  came  joy's  ecstatic  trial: 
He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrest; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol, 

Whose   sweet   entrancing   voice   he   loved   the 
best; 


212  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

They  would  have  thought  who  heard  the  strain 
They  saw,  in  Tempe's  vale,  her  native  maids. 
Amidst  the  festal  sounding  shades, 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing, 

While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings, 
Love    framed   with    mirth    a    gay    fantastic 

round : 

Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  un- 
bound ; 

And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play, 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
Shook  thousand  odours  from  his  dewy  wings. 

O  music!  sphere-descended  maid, 
Friend  of  pleasure,  wisdom's  aid! 
Why,  goddess!  why,  to  us  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside? 
As,  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower. 
You  learned  an  all-commanding  power, 
Thy  mimic  soul,  O  nymph  endeared, 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard; 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 
Devote  to  virtue,  fancy,  art? 
Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time, 
Warm,  energic,  chaste,  sublime! 
Thy  wonders,  in  that  godlike  age, 
Fill  thy  recording  sister's  .page — 
'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale. 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail. 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage. 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age; 
E'en  all  at  once  together  found, 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound — 
O  bid  our  vain  endeavours  cease ; 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece: 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state! 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate  I 


WILLIAM  COLLINS  213 

ODE 

"WBITTEN  IN  THE  BEGINNING  OP  THE  YEAR  1746 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest, 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blessed! 
When  spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Eeturns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung; 
There  honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  grey, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay; 
And  freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there! 

DIRGE  IN  CYMBELINE 

3UNG     BY    GUIDE RIU8    AND     ARVIRAGU8    OVER     FIDELE,    SUP- 
POSED TO  BE  DEAD 

^First  published  in   TJie  Gentleman's  Magazine,  for  October. 
1749) 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 
Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 

Each  opening  sweet  of  earliest  bloom, 
And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear 
To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove; 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here, 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 


214  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

No  withered  witch  shall  here  be  seen; 

No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew : 
The  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green, 

And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew ! 

The  redbreast  oft,  at  evening  hours, 
Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid, 

With  hoary  moss,  and  gathered  flowers, 
To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

When  howling  winds  and  beating  rain, 
In  tempests  shake  the  sylvan  cell; 

Or  'midst  the  chase,  on  every  plain, 
The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell; 

Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore; 

For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed; 
Beloved  till  life  can  charm  no  more, 

And  mourned  till  pity's  self  be  dead. 


1716-1771 

ODE  ON  A    DISTANT   PROSPECT  OF    ETON 

COLLEGE 

(1747) 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers, 

That  crown  the  watry  glade, 
Where  grateful  Science  still  adores 

Her  HENRY'S  holy  Shade ; 
And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  WINDSOR'S  heights  th'  expanse  below 

Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey, 
Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver-winding  way: 


THOMAS   GRAY  21; 

Ah,  happy  hills,  ah,  pleasing  shade, 

Ah,  fields  belov'd  in  vain, 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  stray'd, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain! 
I  feel  the  gales,  that  from  ye  blow, 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow; 

As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing, 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe, 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 

To  breathe  a  second  spring. 

Say,  father  THAMES,  for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace, 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 
With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave? 

The  captive  linnet  which  enthral? 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed, 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball? 

While  some  on  earnest  business  bent 

Their  murm'ring  labours  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraint, 

To  sweeten  liberty: 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign, 

And  unknown  regions  dare  descry: 
Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind, 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 

And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

Gay  hope  is  theirs  by  fancy  fed, 

Less  pleasing  when  possest; 
The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast: 


216  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Theirs  buxom  health  of  rosy  hue, 
Wild  wit,  invention  ever-new, 

And  lively  chear  of  vigour  born; 
The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night, 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light, 

That  fly  th'  -approach  of  morn. 

Alas,  regardless  of  their  doom 

The  little  victims  play! 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day : 
Yet  see  how  all  around  'em  wait 
The  Ministers  of  human  fate, 

And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train! 
Ah,  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand 
To  seize  their  prey  the  murth'rous  bandS 

Ah,  tell  them,  they  are  men! 

These  shall  the  fury  Passions  tear, 

The  vulturs  of  the  mind, 
Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame  that  sculks  behind; 
Or  pineing  Love  shall  waste  their  youth, 
Or  Jealousy  with  rankling  tooth, 

That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart, 
And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 
Grim-visag'd  comfortless  Despair, 

And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart. 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 
Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high, 

To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice, 
And  grinning  Infamy. 

The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  try, 

And  hard  Unkindness'  alter'd  eye, 

That  mocks  the  tear  it  forc'd  to  flow; 

And  keen  Remorse  with  blood  defil'd, 


THOMAS  GKAY  21 

And  moody  Madness  laughing  wild 
Amid  severest  woe. 

Lo,  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 

A  griesly  troop  are  seen, 
The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  Queen : 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins, 
That  every  labouring  sinew  strains, 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage: 
Lo,  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band, 
That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand, 

And  slow-consuming  Age. 

To  each  his  suffrings:  all  are  men, 

Condemn'd  alike  to  groan, 
The  tender  for  another's  pain; 

Th'  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet,  ah!  why  should  they  know  their  fate? 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies, 
Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 
No  more;  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

'Tis  folly  to  be  wise. 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD 

(1751) 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now   fades   the   glimmering   landscape   on    the 
sight, 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds : 


218  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering 
heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built 
shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care : 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke : 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 
How   bow'd  the  woods  beneath   their   sturdy 
stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour. 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 


THOMAS  GRAY  219 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  Mem'ry  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted 

vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
Can  Honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flatt'ry  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have 

sway'd, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll; 

Chill  Penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark  unf athom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear : 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some    village    Hampden,    that    with    dauntless 
breast 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  hist'ry  in  a  nation's  eyes, 


220  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Their  lot  forbad :  nor  circumscrib'd  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  con- 
fin'd; 

Forbad  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn'd  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool  sequester'd  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  ev'n  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture 

deck'd, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd 
muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply: 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey. 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 
Nor  cast  one  longing  ling'ring  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 

E'en  in  our  ashes  livo  their  wonted  fires. 


THOMAS  GRAY  221 

For  thee,  who  mindful  of  th'  unhonour'd  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  Swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Plard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Mutt'ring  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove, 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan;  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  eraz'd  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 

"  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  custom'd  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  fav'rite  tree; 
Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he: 

"  The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him 
borne : 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay, 
Grav'd  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

THE    EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A  Youth,  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown; 

Fair  Science  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 


222  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 

He  gave  to  His'ry  all  he  had,  a  tear, 

He  gain'd  from  heav'n  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a 
friend. 


No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


THE  BARD 
(From  Odes,  1757) 

I.  1. 

"  Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King ! 
Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait, 
Tho'  fann'd  by  Conquest's  crimson  wing 

They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 
Helm,  nor  Hauberk's  twisted  mail, 
Nor  even  thy  virtues,  Tyrant,  shall  avail 

To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears, 

From     Cambria's     curse,     from     Cambria's 

tears ! " 
Such  were  the  sounds,  that  o'er  the  crested  pride 

Of  the  first  Edward  scatter'd  wild  dismay, 
As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side 

He    wound    with    toilsome    march    his    long 

array. 

Stout  Glo'ster  stood  aghast  in  speechless  trance : 
"  To   arms ! "   cried   Mortimer,   and   couch'd   his 
quiv'ring  lance. 


THOMAS  GRAY  223 

I.  2. 

On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 
Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood, 

Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe, 
With  haggard  eyes  the  Poet  stood; 
(Loose  his  beard,  and  hoary  hair 

Stream'd,  like  a  meteor,  to  the  troubled  air,) 
And  with  a  Master's  hand,  and  Prophet's  fire, 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre. 

"  Hark,  how  each  giant-oak,  and  desert  cave, 
Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath! 
O'er  thee,  oh  King!   their  hundred  arms  they 
wave, 

Revenge     on     thee     in     hoarser     murmurs 

breathe ; 

Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 
To  high-born   Hoel's  harp,   or  soft  Llewellyn's 
lay." 

I.  3. 

"  Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue, 
That  hush'd  the  stormy  main: 
Brave  TJrien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed: 
Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 
Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  Plinlimmon  bow  his  cloud-top'd  head. 

On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie, 
Smear'd  with  gore,  and  ghastly  pale: 
Far,  far  aloof  th'  affrighted  ravens  sail; 

The  famish'd  Eagle  screams,  and  passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 

Dear,  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes, 
Dear,  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart, 

Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country's  cries- 
No  more  I  weep.     They  do  not  sleep. 
On  yonder  cliffs,  a  griesly  band, 


224  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

I  see  them  sit,  they  linger  yet, 

Avengers  of  their  native  land : 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join, 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy 
line." 

II.  1. 

"  Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof, 
The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race. 

Give  ample  room,  and  verge  enough 
The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 
Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night, 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 
The  shrieks  of  death,  thro'  Berkley's  roofs  that 

ring, 
Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  King! 

She- Wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs, 
That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  Mate, 

From  thee  be  born,  who  o'er  thy   country 

hangs 
The  scourge  of  Heav'n.     What  Terrors  round 

him  wait! 

Amazement  in  his  van,  with  Flight  combined, 
And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  behind." 

II.  2. 

"Mighty  Victor,  mighty  Lord! 
Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies! 

No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford 
A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 

Is  the  sable  Warriour  fled? 
Thy  son  is  gone.    He  rests  among  the  Dead. 
The   Swarm,   that   in   thy  noontide  beam   were 

born? 

Gone  to  salute  the  rising  Morn. 
Fair  laughs  the  Morn,  and  soft  the  Zephyr  blows, 

While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 


THOMAS  GRAY  225 

In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  Vessel  goes; 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the 

helm; 

Regardless  of  the  sweeping  Whirlwind's  sway, 
That,  hush'd  in  grim  repose,  expects  his  even- 
ing prey." 

II.  3. 

"Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 
The  rich  repast  prepare, 

Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast : 
Close  by  the  regal  chair 

Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 
A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  Guest. 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 

Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse? 

Long  years   of   havoc   urge   their   destined 

course, 

And  thro'  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their  way. 
Ye    Towers    of    Julius,    London's    lasting 

shame, 

With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murther  fed, 
Revere    his    Consort's    faith,    his    Father's 

fame, 

And  spare  the  meek  Usurper's  holy  head. 
Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow, 

Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread: 
The  bristled  Boar  in  infant  gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 
"Now,  Brothers,  bending  o'er  th'  accursed  loom 
Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his 
doom." 

III.  1. 

"Edward,  lo!  to  sudden  fate 
(Weave  we  the  woof.     The  thread  is  spun.) 
Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 


THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

(The  web  is  wove.     The  work  is  done.) 
Stay,  oh  stay!  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  me  unbless'd,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn: 
In  yon  bright  track,  that  fires  the  western  skies, 
They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 
But  oh!  what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon's  height 
Descending  slow  their  glitt'ring  skirts  un- 
roll? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight, 

Ye  unborn  Ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail. 
All  hail,  ye  genuine  Kings,  Britannia's  Issue, 
hail!" 

III.  2. 

"  Girt  with  many  a  Baron  bold 

Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear; 
And  gorgeous  Dames,  and  Statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty,  appear. 
In  the  midst  a  Form  divine ! 
Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-line; 
Her  lyon-port,  her  awe-commanding  face, 
Attemper'd  sweet  to  virgin-grace. 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air, 

What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her 

play. 
Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear; 

They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  Rapture  calls,  and  soaring,  as  she  sings, 
Waves  in  the  eye  of  Heav'n  her  many-colour'd 
•wings." 

III.  3. 

"  The  verse  adorn  again 
Fierce  War,  and  faithful  Love, 
And  Truth  severe,  by  fairy  Fiction  drest. 
In  buskin'd  measures  move 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  227 

Pale  Grief,  and  Pleasing  Pain, 

With  Horrour,  Tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast. 

A  Voice,  as  of  the  Cherub-Choir, 
Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear; 
And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear, 

That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 
Fond  impious  Man,  think'st  thou,  yon  sanguine 

cloud, 
Rais'd  by  thy  breath,  has  quench'd  the  Orb 

of  day? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood, 

And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 
Enough  for  me:     With  joy  I  see 

The  different  doom  our  Fates  assign. 
Be  thine  Despair,  and  sceptr'd  Care, 
To  triumph,  and  to  die,  are  mine." 
He  spoke,   and  headlong   from   the   mountain's 

height 

Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plung'd  to  endless 
night. 


©liver 

1728-1774 
THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

(1770) 

Sweet  Auburn!  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the  labouring 

swain, 

Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delay 'd: 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene! 


228  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

How  often  have  I  paus'd  on  every  charm, 

The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighbouring 

hill, 

The  hawthorn  bush  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made! 
How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train  from  labour  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree; 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey'd, 
And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went 

round ! 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tir'd, 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspir'd; 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down. 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  titter'd  round  the  place, 
The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 
The    matron's    glance    that    would    those    looks 

reprove. 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village!  sports  like 

these, 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  even  toil  to  please ; 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence 

shed; 
These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms  are 

fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  with- 
drawn ; 

Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green: 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  229 

One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But  chok'd  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries: 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fr.de — 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  hac>  made — 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroy'd,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man: 
For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  requir'd,  but  gave  no  more; 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health, 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  alter'd;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain: 
Along  the  lawn  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose, 
And  every  want  to  opulence  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  ask'd  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  grac'd  the  peaceful 

scene, 

Liv'd  in  each  look  and  brighten'd  all  the  green — 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 


230  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Sweet  Auburn !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruin'd  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elaps'd,  return  to  view 
Where    once    the    cottage    stood,    the    hawthorn 

grew, 

Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose. 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn'd  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw; 
And  as  an  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine ! 
How  happy  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep; 
Nor  surly  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend, 
Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceiv'd  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  231 

And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening's 

close 

Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 
There  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  soften'd  from  below: 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young, 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school, 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whispering 

wind, 

-And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  fill'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 
For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled — 
All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring; 
She,  wretched  matron — forc'd  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn — 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain ! 

Near   yonder    copse,    where   once   the   garden 

smil'd, 

And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild, 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  discloses 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year. 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  chang'd,  nor  wish'd  to  change  his 
place ; 


232  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Unpractis'd  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power 
By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour; 
Par  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 
More  skill'd  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  reliev'd  their  pain; 
The  long-remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 
The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  al- 

low'd; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away, 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch  and  show'd  how  fields  were 

won. 
Pleas'd  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to 

glow, 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  even  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt  for  all : 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledg'd  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reprov'd  each  dull  delay, 
Allur'd  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismay'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood :  at  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul; 
Comfort   came   down   the   trembling   wretch   to 

raise, 

And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper'd  praise. 
At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  233 

His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway, 
And  fools  who  came  to  scoff  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran; 
Even  children  follow'd,  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's 

smile : 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest, 
Their  welfare  pleas'd  him,  and  their  cares  dis- 

trest. 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven: 
As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells   from   the  vale,   and  midway   leaves   the 

storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are 

spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom'd  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew: 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 
Full  well  they  laugh'd  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd; 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declar'd  how  much  he  knew; 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too, 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 


234  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

In  arguing  too  the  parson  own'd  his  skill, 

For  even  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  still ; 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering 

sound 

Amaz'd  the  gazing  rustics  rang'd  around; 
And  still  they  gaz'd,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame:  the  very  spot, 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumph'd,  is  forgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts 

inspir'd, 

Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retir'd. 
Where  village  statesmen  talk'd  with  looks  pro- 
found, 

And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place : 
The  whitewash'd  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door; 
The  chest  contriv'd  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day; 
The  pictures  plac'd  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose ; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill'd  the  day. 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay, 
While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show. 
Rang'd  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row. 
Vain  transitory  splendours !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart. 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail; 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  235 

No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear ; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes!  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art; 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfin'd. 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array 'd, 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain; 
And,  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy? 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore; 
Hoards  even  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around; 
Yet  count  our  gains :  this  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied — 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds : 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their 
growth ; 


236  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

His  seat,  where  solitary  spots  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies. 
While  thus  the  land,  adorn'd  for  pleasure,  all 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorn'd  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrow'd  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ; 
But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are 

frail, 

When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress: 
Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd; 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd. 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise; 
While,  scourg'd  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land. 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms — a  garden,  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,  ah!  where  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray'd 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped — what  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combin'd 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know, 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade; 


OLIVEK  GOLDSMITH  237 

Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps 

display, 

There,  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The   dome  where   pleasure   holds   her   midnight 

reign, 

Here,  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorgeous  train; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts?    Ah,  turn  thine 

eyes 

Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn ; 
Now  lost  to  all — her  friends,  her  virtue  fled — 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 
And,  pinch'd  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the 

shower, 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 
She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of  country  brown. 
Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,   the  loveliest 

train, 

Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain? 
Even  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread. 
Ah,  no !     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charm'd  before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore: 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day ; 


238  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 

But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling; 

Those    poisonous    fields    with    rank    luxuriance 

crown'd, 

Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than  they ; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravag'd  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  shelter'd  thefts  of  harmless  love. 
Good  Heaven !  what  sorrows  gloom'd  that  part- 
ing day, 

That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd  their 

last, 

And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish'd  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main; 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepar'd  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  other's  woe; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years. 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blest  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose, 
And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a 
tear, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  239 

And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear; 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  Luxury!  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchang'd  are  things  like  these  for  thee! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own : 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank,  unwieldy  woe; 
Till   sapp'd  their  strength,   and  every  part  un- 
sound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  Virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale, 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 
And  kind  connubial  Tenderness  are  there; 
And  Piety  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade ; 
Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame; 
Dear,  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride, 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
Thou  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so; 
Thou  guide  by  which  the  noble  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell !  and  O  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 


240      .  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

On  Torno's  cliffs  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigours  of  the  inclement  clime; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possest, 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labour'd  mole  away; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
.  As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 


Ubomas  Cbatterton 

1752-1770 

MINSTREL'S  ROUNDELAY 
(From  Aella,  1770) 

O  sing  unto  my  roundelay, 

O  drop  the  briny  tear  with  me, 
Dance  no  more  at  holy-day, 
Like  a  running  river  be. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willcw-tree. 

Black  his  locks  as  the  winter  night 

White  his  skin  as  the  summer  snow, 
Red  his  face  as  the  morning  light, 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON  241 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  the  throstle's  note, 
Quick  in  dance  as  thought  can  be, 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout, 
O  he  lies  by  the  willow-tree! 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Hark!  the  raven  flaps  his  wing 

In  the  briar'd  dell  below; 
Hark!  the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing 
To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

See!  the  white  moon  shines  on  high; 

Whiter  is  my  true  love's  shroud; 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky, 
Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 

All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Here  upon  my  true  love's  grave 

Shall  the  barren  flowers  be  laid: 
Not  one  holy  Saint  to  save 
All  the  coldness  of  a  maid! 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

With  my  hands  I'll  gird  the  briars 

Round  his  holy  corse  to  grow. 
Elfin  Faery,  light  your  fires; 
Here  my  body  still  shall  bow. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 


242  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

50  Come,  with  acorn-cup  and  thorn, 
Drain  my  hearte's  blood  away ; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn, 
Dance  by  night  or  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 


THE  BALADE  OF  CHARITIE 
(From  Poems  collected  1777) 

In  Virgine  the  sultry  Sun  'gan  sheene 
And  hot  upon  the  meads  did  cast  his  ray : 

The  apple  ruddied  from  its  paly  green, 

And  the  soft  pear  did  bend  the  leafy  spray; 
The  pied  chelandry  sang  the  livelong  day : 

'Twas  now  the  pride,  the  manhood  of  the  year, 

And  eke  the  ground  was  dight  in  its  most  deft 
aumere. 

The  sun  was  gleaming  in  the  mid  of  day, 

Dead  still  the  air  and  eke  the  welkin  blue, 
When  from  the  sea  arist  in  drear  array 
A  heap  of  clouds  of  sable  sullen  hue, 
The  which  full  fast  unto  the  woodland  drew, 
Hiding  at  once  the  sunne's  festive  face ; 
And  the  black  tempest  swelled  and  gathered  up 
apace. 

Beneath  an  holm,  fast  by  a  pathway  side 
Which  did  unto  Saint  Godwyn's  convent  lead 

A  hapless  pilgrim  moaning  did  abide, 
Poor  in  his  view,  ungentle  in  his  weed, 
Long  breast-full  of  the  miseries  of  need. 

Where  from  the  hailstorm  could  the  beggar  fly? 

He  had  no  housen  there,  nor  any  convent  nigh. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON  243 

Look  in  his  gloomed  face;  his  sprite  there  scan, 

How  woe-begone,  how  withered,  sapless,  dead! 
Haste  to  thy  church-glebe-house,  accursed  man, 
Haste  to  thy  coffin,  thy  sole  slumbering-bed ! 
Cold  as  the  clay  which  will  grow  on  thy  head 
Are  Charity  and  Love  among  high  elves; 
The  Knights  and  Barons  live  for  pleasure  and 
themselves. 

The  gathered  storm  is  ripe ;  the  big  drops  fall ; 
The  sunburnt  meadows  smoke  and  drink  the 

rain; 

The  coming  ghastness  dothe  the  cattle  appal, 
And  the  full  flocks  are  driving  o'er  the  plain ; 
Dashed    from    the    clouds,    the    waters    gush 

again ; 

The  welkin  opes,  the  yellow  levin  flies, 
And  the  hot  fiery  steam  in  the  wide  flame-lowe 
dies. 

List !    now    the    thunder's    rattling    clamouring 

sound 

Moves  slowly  on,  and  then  upswollen  clangs, 
Shakes    the    high    spire,    and    lost,    dispended, 

drown'd,  ".'*        . 

Still  on  the  affrighted  ear  of  terror  hangs; 
The  winds  are  up ;  the  lofty  elm-tree  swangs ; 
Again  the  levin  and  the  thunder  pours, 
And  the  full  clouds  are  burst  at  once  in  stormy 
showers. 

Spurring  his  palfrey  o'er  the  watery  plain, 

The  Abbot  of  Saint  Godwyn's  convent  came; 
45  His  chapournette  was  drenched  with  the  rain, 
His  painted  girdle  met  with  mickle  shame; 
He  backwards  told  his  bederoll  at  the  same. 


244  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

The  storm  increased,  and  he  drew  aside, 
With  the  poor  alms-craver  near  to  the  holm  to 
bide. 

His  cope  was  all  of  Lincoln  cloth  so  fine, 

With  a  gold  button  fastened  near  his  chin; 
His  autremete  was  edged  with  golden  twine, 
And  his  peaked  shoe  a  lordling's  might  have 

been; 

Full  well  it  showed  he  counted  cost  no  sin: 
The  trammels  of  the  palfrey  pleased  his  sight, 
For  the  horse-milliner  his  head  with  roses  dight. 

"  An  alms,   Sir  Priest ! "  the  drooping  pilgrim 
said, 

"  O  let  me  wait  within  your  convent-door 
Till  the  sun  shineth  high  above  our  head 

And  the  loud  tempest  of  the  air  is  o'er. 

Helpless  and  old  am  I,  alas!  and  poor: 
No  house,  nor  friend,  no  money  in  my  pouch; 
All  that  I  call  my  own  is  this  my  silver  crouch." 

"  Varlet,"  replied  the  Abbot,  "  cease  your  din ; 

This  is  no  season  alms  and  prayers  to  give ; 
My  porter  never  lets  a  beggar  in ; 
.  None  touch  my  ring  who  not  in  honour  live." 
And  now  the  sun  with  the  black  clouds  did 

strive, 

And  shot  upon  the  ground  his  glaring  ray: 
The  Abbot  spurred  his  steed,  and  eftsoons  rode 
away. 

Once  more  the  sky  was  black,  the  thunder  roll'd : 
Fast  running  o'er  the  plain  a  priest  was  seen, 

Not  dight  full  proud  nor  buttoned  up  in  gold ; 
His  cope  and  jape  were  grey,  and  eke  were 

clean ; 
A  Limitour  he  was,  of  order  seen; 


WILLIAM  COWPER  245 

And  from  the  pathway  side  then  turned  he, 
Where  the  poor  beggar  lay  beneath  the  holmen 
tree. 

"  An   alms,   Sir   Priest,"   the   drooping   pilgrim 

said, 
"  For    sweet    Saint    Mary    and    your    order's 

sake !  " 

The  Limitour  then  loosened  his  pouch-thread 
And  did  thereout  a  groat  of  silver  take; 
The  needy  pilgrim  did  for  gladness  shake. 
"  Here,  take  this  silver,  it  may  ease  thy  care ; 
We  are  God's  stewards  all, — nought  of  our  own 
we  bear. 

"  But  ah !  unhappy  pilgrim,  learn  of  me, 

Scarce  any  give  a  rentroll  to  their  Lord : 
Here,  take  my  semicope, — thou'rt  bare,  I  see; 
'Tis  thine;   the  Saints  will  give  me  my  re- 
ward!" 

He  left  the  pilgrim  and  his  way  aborde. 
Virgin  and  holy  Saints  who  sit  in  gloure, 
Or  give  the  mighty  will,  or  give  the  good  man 
power. 


Miltiam  Cowper 

1731-1800 

THE  TASK 

(1785) 
(Selections  from  Book  I.  The  Sofa) 

But  though  true  worth  and  virtue,  in  the  mild 
And  genial  soil  of  cultivated  life, 
Thrive  most,  and  may  perhaps  thrive  only  there, 
Yet  not  in  cities  oft :  in  proud  and  gay 


246  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

And  gain-devoted  cities.     Thither  flow, 

As  to  a  common  and  most  noisome  sewer, 

The  dregs  and  feculence  of  every  land. 

In  cities  foul  example  on  most  minds 

Begets  its  likeness.    Rank  abundance  breeds 

In  gross  and  pampered  cities  sloth  and  lust, 

And  wantonness  and  gluttonous  excess. 

In  cities  vice  is  hidden  with  most  ease, 

Or  seen  with  least  reproach;  and  virtue,  taught 

By  frequent  lapse,  can  hope  no  triumph  there 

Beyond  the  achievement  of  successful  flight. 

I  do  confess  them  nurseries  of  the  arts, 

In  which  they  flourish  most;  where,  in  the  beams 

Of  warm  encouragement,  and  in  the  eye 

Of  public  note,  they  reach  their  perfect  size. 

Such  London  is,  by  taste  and  wealth  proclaimed 

The  fairest  capital  of  all  the  world, 

By  riot  and  incontinence  the  worst. 

There,  touched  by  Reynolds,  a  dull  blank  becomes 

A  lucid  mirror,  in  which  Nature  sees 

All  her  reflected  features.     Bacon  there 

Gives  more  than  female  beauty  to  a  stone, 

And  Chatham's  eloquence  to  marble  lips. 

Nor  does  the  chisel  occupy  alone 

The  powers  of  sculpture,  but  the  style  as  much; 

Each  province  of  her  art  her  equal  care. 

With  nice  incision  of  her  guided  steel 

She  ploughs  a  brazen  field,  and  clothes  a  soil 

So  sterile,  with  what  charms  soe'er  she  will, 

The  richest  scenery  and  the  loveliest  forms. 

Where  finds  Philosophy  her  eagle  eye, 

With  which  she  gazes  at  yon  burning  disk 

Undazzled,  and  detects  and  counts  his  spots? 

In  London.     Where  her  implements  exact, 

With  which  she  calculates,  computes,  and  scans 

All  distance,  motion,  magnitude,  and  now 

Measures  an  atom,  and  now  girds  n  world? 


WILLIAM  COWPEK  247 

In  London.     Where  has  commerce  such  a  mart, 

So  rich,  so  thronged,  so  drained,  and  so  supplied, 

As  London,  opulent,  enlarged,  and  still 

Increasing  London?     Babylon  of  old 

Not  more  the  glory  of  the  earth  than  she, 

A  more  accomplished  world's  chief  glory  now. 

She  has  her  praise.     Now  mark  a  spot  or  two 
That  so  much  beauty  would  do  well  to  purge; 
And  show  this  queen  of  cities,  that  so  fair 
May  yet  be  foul,  so  witty  yet  not  wise. 
It  is  not  seemly,  nor  of  good  report, 
That  she  is  slack  in  discipline;  more  prompt 
To  avenge  than  to  prevent  the  breach  of  law; 
That  she  is  rigid  in  denouncing  death 
On  petty  robbers,  and  indulges  life 
And  liberty,  and  of  times  honour  too, 
To  peculators  of  the  public  gold; 
That  thieves  at  home  must  hang,  but  he  that  puts 
Into  his  overgorged  and  bloated  purse 
The  wealth  of  Indian  provinces,  escapes. 
Nor  is  it  well,  nor  can  it  come  to  good, 
That,  through  profane  and  infidel  contempt 
Of  Holy  Writ,  she  has  presumed  to  annul 
And  abrogate,  as  roundly  as  she  may, 
The  total  ordinance  and  will  of  God ; 
Advancing  Fashion  to  the  post  of  Truth, 
And  centering  all  authority  in  modes 
And  customs  of  her  own,  till  Sabbath  rites 
Have  dwindled  into  unrespected  forms, 
And  knees  and  hassocks  are  well-nigh  divorced. 

God   made   the   country,   and   man   made   the 

town: 

What  wonder  then,  that  health  and  virtue,  gifts 
That  can  alone  make  sweet  the  bitter  draught 
That  life  holds  out  to  all,  should  most  abound 
And  least  be  threatened  in  the  fields  and  groves? 
Possess  ye  therefore,  ye  who,  borne  about 


248  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

In  chariots  and  sedans,  know  no  fatigue 
But  that  of  idleness,  and  taste  no  scenes 
But  such  as  art  contrives,  possess  ye  still 
Your  element ;  there  only  ye  can  shine, 
There  only  minds  like  yours  can  do  no  harm. 
Our  groves  were  planted  to  console  at  noon 
The  pensive  wanderer  in  their  shades.     At  eve 
The  moonbeam,  sliding  softly  in  between 
The  sleeping  leaves,  is  all  the  light  they  wish, 
Birds  warbling  all  the  music.     We  can  spare 
The  splendour  of  your  lamps,  they  but  eclipse 
Our  softer  satellite.    Your  songs  confound 
Our  more  harmonious  notes :  the  thrush  departs 
Scared,  and  the  offended  nightingale  is  mute. 
There  is  a  public  mischief  in  your  mirth, 
It  plagues  your  country.     Folly  such  as  yours 
Graced  with  a  sword,  and  worthier  of  a  fan, 
Has  made,  what  enemies  could  ne'er  have  done, 
Our  arch  of  empire,  steadfast  but  for  you, 
A  mutilated  structure,  soon  to  fall. 


BOOK  II. — THE  TIKE-PIECE 

Oh  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 

Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 

Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit, 

Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 

Might  never  reach  me  more!     My  ear  is  pained, 

My  soul  is  sick  with  every  day's  report 

Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  filled. 

There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart. 

It  does  not  feel  for  man ;  the  natural  bond 

Of  brotherhood  is  severed  as  the  flax 

That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 

He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 

Not  coloured  like  his  own,  and  having  power 

To  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 


WILLIAM  COWPER  249 

Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations  who  had  else 
Like, kind  red  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 
Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys ; 
And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored, 
As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot, 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
With  stripes  that  Mercy,  with  a  bleeding  heart, 
Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 
Then  what  is  man?     And  what  man  seeing  this, 
And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man? 
I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 
To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep, 
And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earned. 
No :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 
I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave 
And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home. — Then  why  abroad? 
And  they  themselves  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England ;  if  their  lungs 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free; 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  fall. 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it  then, 
And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein 
Of  all  your  empire;  that  where  Britain's  power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 

BOOK  in. — THE   GARDEN 

I  was  a  stricken  deer  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since ;  with  many  an  arrow  deep  infixed 


250  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  withdrew 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 
There  was  I  found  by  One  who  had  Himself 
Been  hurt  by  the  archers.     In  His  side  He  bore. 
And  in  His  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 
With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts, 
He  drew  them  forth,  and  healed,  and  bade  me  live. 
Since  then,  with  few  associates,  in  remote 
And  silent  woods  I  wander,  far  from  those 
My  former  partners  of  the  peopled  scene; 
With  few  associates,  and  not  wishing  more. 
Here  much  I  ruminate,  as  much  I  may, 
With  other  views  of  men  and  manners  now 
Than  once,  and  others  of  a  life  co  come. 


BOOK  rv. — THE  WINTER'S  EVENING 

Hark!    'tis    the    twanging    horn!     O'er    yonder 

bridge, 

That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 
Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,  in  which  the  moon 
Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected  bright, 
He  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world, 
With  spattered  boots,  strapped  waist,  and  frozen 

locks, 

News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at  his  back. 
True  to  his  charge,  the  close-packed  load  behind, 
Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn, 
And  having  dropped  the  expected  bag — pass  on. 
He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch, 
Cold  and  yet  cheerful :  messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some. 
To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy. 
Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks, 
Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 


WILLIAM  COWPEB  251 

With  tears  that  trickled  down  the  writer's  cheeks 
Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill, 
Or  charged  with  amorous  sighs  of  absent  swains, 
Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  affect 
His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 
But  oh  the  important  budget!  ushered  in 
With  such  heart-shaking  music,  who  can  say 
What  are  its  tidings?  have  our  troops  awaked? 
Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugged, 
Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  the  Atlantic  wave? 
Is  India  free?  and  does  she  wear  her  plumed 
And  jewelled  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace, 
Or  do  we  grind  her  still?     The  grand  debate, 
The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply, 
The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit, 
And  the  loud  laugh — I  long  to  know  them  all; 
1  burn  to  set  the  imprisoned  wranglers  free, 
And  give  them  voice  and  utterance  once  again. 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud  hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 


Oh  Winter!  ruler  of  the  inverted  year, 
Thy  scattered  hair  with  sleet  like  ashes  filled, 
Thy  breath  congealed  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 
Fringed   with  a   beard   made   white  with   othei 

snows 

Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapt  in  clouds, 
A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne 
A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels, 
But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way; 
I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seemest, 
And  dreaded  as  thou  art.     Thou  boldest  the  sun 


252  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

130  A  prisoner  in  the  yet  undawning  east, 
Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west;  but  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease, 
And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought, 
Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 
I  crown  thee  King  of  intimate  delights, 
Fireside  enjoyments,  home-born  happiness, 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturbed  retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  evening  know. 


Come,  Evening,  once  again,  season  of  peace; 
Return,  sweet  Evening,  and  continue  long! 
Methinks  I  see  thee  in  the  streaky  west, 
With  matron  step  slow  moving,  while  the  Night 
Treads  on  thy  sweeping  train ;  one  hand  employed 
In  letting  fall  the  curtain  of  repose 
On  bird  and  beast,  the  other  charged  for  man 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day; 
Not  sumptuously  adorned,  nor  needing  aid, 
Like  homely-featured  Night,  of  clustering  gems; 
A  star  or  two  just  twinkling  on  thy  brow 
Suffices  thee;  save  that  the  moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  hers,  not  worn  indeed  on  high 
With  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 
With  modest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone, 
Resplendent  less,  but  of  an  ample  round. 
Come  then,  and  thou  shalt  find  thy  votary  calm, 
Or  make  me  so.     Composure  is  thy  gift: 
And  whether  I  devote  thy  gentler  hours 
To  books,  to  music,  or  the  poet's  toil ; 
To  weaving  nets  for  bird-alluring  fruit; 


WILLIAM  COWPER  253 

Or  twining  silken  threads  round  ivory  reels, 
When   they   command   whom   man   was   born   to 

please : 
I  slight  thee  not,  but  make  thee  welcome  still. 


In  such  a  world,  so  thorny,  and  where  none 
Finds  happiness  unblighted,  or,  if  found, 
Without  some  thistly  sorrow  at  its  side, 
It  seems  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  no  sin 
Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distinguished  than  ourselves,  that  thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  moderate  ills, 
And  sympathize  with  others,  suffering  more. 
Ill  fares  the  traveller  now,  and  he  that  stalks 
In  ponderous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team. 
The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 
By  congregated  loads  adhering  close 
To  the  clogged  wheels ;  and  in  its  sluggish  pace 
Noiseless  appears  a  moving  hill  of  snow. 
The  toiling  steeds  expand  the  nostril  wide, 
While  every  breath,  by  respiration  strong 
Forced  downward,  is  consolidated  soon 
Upon  their  jutting  chests.     He,  formed  to  bear 
The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempestuous  night, 
With  half-shut  eyes  and  puckered  cheeks,   and 

teeth 

Presented  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on. 
One  hand  secures  his  hat,  save  when  with  both 
He  brandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip, 
Resounding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain. 
Oh  happy!  and  in  my  account,  denied 
The  sensibility  of  pain  with  which 
Refinement  is  endued,  thrice  happy  thou. 
Thy  frame,  robust  and  hardy,  feels  indeed 
The  piercing  cold,  but  feels  it  unimpaired. 
The  learned  finger  never  need  explore 


254  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Thy  vigorous  pulse;  and  the  unhealthful  east, 
That  breathes  the  spleen,  and  searches  every  bone 
Of  the  infirm,  is  wholesome  air  to  thee. 
Ihy  days  roll  on  exempt  from  household  care; 
Thy  waggon  is  thy  wife;  and  the  poor  beasts, 
That  drag  the  dull  companion  to  and  fro, 
Thine  helpless  charge,  dependent  on  thy  care. 
Ah,  treat  them  kindly!  rude  as  thou  appearest, 
Yet  show  that  thou  hast  mercy,  which  the  great, 
With  needless  hurry  whirled  from  place  to  place, 
Humane  as  they  would  seem,  not  always  show. 

Poor,  yet  industrious,  modest,  quiet,  neat, 
Such  claim  compassion  in  a  night  like  this, 
And  have  a  friend  in  every  feeling  heart. 

BOOK   VI. — THE  WINTER   WALK   AT  NOON 

The  night  was  winter  in  his  roughest  mood, 
The  morning  sharp  and  clear.     But  now  at  noon, 
Upon  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills, 
And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast, 
The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage, 
And  has  the  warmth  of  May.     The  vault  is  blue 
Without  a  cloud,  and  white  without  a  speck 
The  dazzling  splendour  of  the  scene  below. 
Again  the  harmony  comes  o'er  the  vale, 
And   through   the   trees    I    view    the   embattled 

tower 

Whence  all  the  music.     I  again  perceive 
The  soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains, 
And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I  tread 
The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms, 
Whose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade. 
The  roof,  though  moveable  through  all  its  length 
As  the  wind  sways  it,  has  yet  well  sufficed, 
And  intercepting  in  their  silent  fall 
The  frequent  flakes,  has  kept  a  path  for  me. 


WILLIAM  COWPEK  255 

Xo  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought. 
The  redbreast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 
With   slender   notes,   and   more   than   half   sup- 
pressed : 

Pleased  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  light 
From  spray  to  spray,  where'er  he  rests  he  shakes 
From  many  a  twig  the  pendant  drops  of  ice, 
That  tinkle  in  the  withered  leaves  below. 
Stillness,  accompanied  with  sounds  so  soft, 
Charms  more  than  silence.    Meditation  here 
May  think  down  hours  to  moments.      Here  the 

heart 

May  give  a  useful  lesson  to  the  head, 
And  learning  wiser  grow  without  his  books. 
Knowledge  and  wisdom,  far  from  being  one, 
Have  oftimes  no  connection.     Knowledge  dwells 
In  heads  replete  with  thoughts  of  other  men, 
Wisdom  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own. 
Knowledge,  a  rude  unprofitable  mass, 
The  mere  materials  with  which  wisdom  builds, 
Till  smoothed  and  squared  and  fitted  to  its  place, 
Does  but  encumber  whom  it  seems  to  enrich. 
Knowledge  is  proud  that  he  has  learned  so  much ; 
Wisdom  is  humble  that  he  knows  no  more. 

i 

I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends 
(Though  graced  with  polished  manners  and  fine 

sense, 

Yet  wanting  sensibility)  the  man 
Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm. 
An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail 
That  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public  path; 
But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarned, 
Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile  live. 
The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to  the  sight, 
And  charged  perhaps  with  venom,  that  intrudes, 
A  visitor  unwelcome,  into  scenes 


256  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose,  the  alcore, 

The  chamber,  or  refectory,  may  die: 

A  necessary  act  incurs  no  blame. 

Not  so  when,  held  within  their  proper  bounds, 

And  guiltless  of  offence,  they  range  the  air, 

Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  field: 

There  they  are  privileged:  and  he  that  hunts 

Or  harms  them  there  is  guilty  of  a  wrong, 

Disturbs  the  economy  of  nature's  realm, 

Who,  when  she  formed,  designed  them  an  abode. 

The  sum  is  this :  if  man's  convenience,  health, 

Or  safety  interfere,  his  rights  and  claims 

Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish  theirs. 

Else  they  are  all — the  meanest  things  that  are — 

As  free  to  live,  and  to  enjoy  that  life, 

As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first, 

Who  in  His  sovereign  wisdom  made  them  all. 

Ye  therefore  who  love  mercy,  teach  your  sons 

To  love  it  too.     The  spring-time  of  our  years 

Is  soon  dishonoured  and  defiled  in  most 

By  budding  ills,  that  ask  a  prudent  hand 

To  check  them.     But,  alas!  none  sooner  shoots, 

If  unrestrained,  into  luxuriant  growth. 

Than  cruelty,  most  devilish  of  them  all. 

Mercy  to  him  that  shows  it,  is  the  rule 

And  righteous  limitation  of  its  act, 

By   which   Heaven   moves   in   pardoning   guilty 

man, 

And  he  that  shows  none,  being  ripe  in  years, 
And  conscious  of  the  outrage  he  commits, 
Shall  seek  it  and  not  find  it  in  his  turn. 

Distinguished  much  by  reason,  and  still  more 
By  our  capacity  of  grace  divine, 
From  creatures  that  exist  but  for  our  sake, 
Which,  having  served  us,  perish,  we  are  held 
Accountable,  and  God,  some  future  day, 
Will  reckon  with  us  roundly  for  the  abuse 


WILLIAM  COWPER  257 

Of  what  He  deems  no  mean  or  trivial  trust. 
Superior  as  we  are,  they  yet  depend 
Not  more  on  human  help  .than  we  on  theirs. 
Their  strength,  or  speed,  or  vigilance,  were  given 
In  aid  of  our  defects.     In  some  are  found 
Such  teachable  and  apprehensive  parts, 
That  man's  attainments  in  his  own  concerns, 
Matched  with  the  expertness  of  the  brutes   in 

theirs, 
Are  oftimes  vanquished  and  thrown  far  behind. 


ON    THE    RECEIPT  OF    MY    MOTHER'S    PICTURE 
OUT  OF  NORFOLK 

(Cir.  1790) 

THE  GIFT  OP  MY  COUSIN,   ANN  BODHAM 

O  That  those  lips  had  language !     Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"  Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away !  " 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blessed  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here! 
Who  bidst  me  honour  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long, 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own: 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  revery, 
A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 


258  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSOX 

My  mother !  when  I  learnt  that  thou  wast  dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss: 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile!  it  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu! 
But  was  it  such?     It  was. — Where  thou  art  gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more! 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wished  I  long  believed, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learnt  at  last  submission  to  my  lot; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no 

more, 

Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capped, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known, 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own, 
Short-lived  possession !     But  the  record  fair 
That  memory  keeps,  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm  that  has  effaced 


WILLIAM  COWPER  259 

A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 

Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 

That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly 

laid; 

Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionery  plum;- 
The  fragi'ant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By   thy   own   hand,   till    fresh   they   shone   and 

glowed ; 

All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 
Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 
That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes; 
All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 
Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 
Could   Time,   his   flight   reversed,   restore  the 

hours, 

When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flow- 
ers, 

The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and 

smile.) 

Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them 

here? 

I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. — 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbounded  spirit  into  bonds  again. 


260  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven'd  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay; 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !  hast  reached  the 

shore, 

"  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar," 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed — 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-tosst, 
Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass 

lost, 

And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet,  Oh,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned  and  rulers  of  the  earth; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies! 
And  now,  farewell — Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
1  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again ; 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine. 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine: 
And,  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thy  self  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 


WILLIAM  COWPER  261 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  "ROYAL  GEORGE" 

WRITTEN  WHEN  THE     NEWS  ARRIVED,    SEPTEMBER,    1782,   TO 
THE    MARCH     IN  "  SCIPIO  " 

Toll  for  the  brave! 
The  brave  that  are  no  more! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 
Fast  by  their  native  shore! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 
Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 
And  she  was  overset; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 
With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave! 
Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought; 
His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle; 
No  tempest  gave  the  shock; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak ; 
She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath; 
His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 
With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up, 
Once  dreaded  by  our  foes! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 
The  tear  that  England  owes. 


262  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 
And  she  may  float  again 
Full-charged  with  England's  thunder, 
And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 
His  victories  are  o'er; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 
Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 


THE  CAST-AWAY 
(March  20,  1799) 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky, 
The  Atlantic  billows  roared, 
When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 
Washed  headlong  from  on  board, 
Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft, 
His  floating  home  forever  left. 

No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast 

Than  he  with  whom  he  went, 

Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  coast 

With  warmer  wishes  sent. 

He  loved  them  both,  but  both  in  vain, 

Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 

Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brine, 

Expert  to  swim,  he  lay; 

Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 

Or  courage  die  away; 

But  waged  with  death  a  lasting  strife. 

Supported  by  despair  of  life. 

He  shouted:  nor  his  friends  had  failed 

To  check  the  vessel's  course, 

But  so  the  furious  blast  prevailed, 


WILLIAM   COWPEB  263 

That,  pitiless  perforce, 

They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind, 

And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

Some  succor  yet  they  could  afford; 

And  such  as  storms  allow, 

The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord, 

Delayed  not  to  bestow. 

But  he  (they  knew)  nor  ship  nor  shore, 

What  e'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more. 

Nor,  cruel  as  it  seemed,  could  he 
Their  haste  himself  condemn, 
Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea, 
Alone  could  rescue  them; 
Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die 
Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 

He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean,  self-upheld: 

And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  power, 

His  destiny  repelled; 

And  ever,  as  the  minutes  flew, 

Entreated  help,  or  cried — "  Adieu !  " 

At  length,  his  transient  respite  past, 
His  comrades,  who  before 
Had  heard  his  voice  in  every  blast, 
Could  catch  the  sound  no  more: 
For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 
The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 

No  poet  wept  him;  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere. 

That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age, 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear : 

And  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed 

Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 


264  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream, 

Descanting  on  his  fate, 

To  give  the  melancholy  theme 

A  more  enduring  date: 

But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 

Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 

No  voice  divine  the  storm  allayed, 

No  light  propitious  shone, 

When,  snatched  from  all  effectual  aid, 

We  perished,  each  alone: 

But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea, 

And  whelmed  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 


Blafee 

1757-1827 

TO  THE  MUSES 
(From  Poetical  Sketches,  1783) 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow, 
Or  in  the  chambers  of  the  East, 
The  chambers  of  the  sun  that  now 
From  ancient  melody  have  ceased; 

Whether  in  Heaven  ye  wander  fair, 

Or  the  green  corners  of  the  earth, 

Or  the  blue  regions  of  the  air, 

Where  the  melodious  winds  have  birth; 

Whether  on  crystal  rocks  ye  rove 
Beneath  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 
Wandering  in  many  a  coral  grove; 
Fair  Nine,  forsaking  Poetry; 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  265 

How  have  you  left  the  ancient  love 
That  bards  of  old  enjoy'd  in  you! 
The  languid  strings  do  scarcely  move, 
The  sound  is  forced,  the  notes  are  few. 

TO  THE  EVENING  STAR 

(From  the  same) 

Thou  fair-haired  angel  of  the  evening, 

Now,  whilst  the  sun  rests  on  the  mountain,  light 

Thy  brilliant  torch  of  love;  thy  radiant  crown 

Put  on,  and  smile  upon  our  evening  bed ! 

Smile  on  our  loves;   and  whilst   thou   drawest 

round 

The  curtains  of  the  sky,  scatter  thy  dew 
On  every  flower  that  closes  its  sweet  eyes 
In  timely  sleep.     Let  thy  west  wind  sleep  on 
The  lake ;  speak  silence  with  thy  glimmering  eyes, 
And  wash  the  dusk  with  silver.     Soon,  full  soon 
Dost  thou  withdraw;  then  the  wolf  rages  wide, 
And  then  the  lion  glares  through  the  dun  forest. 
The  fleeces  of  our  flocks  are  covered  with 
Thy  sacred   dew:   protect   them  with   thine   in- 
fluence. 

INTRODUCTION 

(From  Songs  of  Innocence,  1787) 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild, 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 
And  he,  laughing,  said  to  me: 

'  Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb ! ' 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 
'  Piper,  pipe  that  song  again ; ' 
So  I  piped:  he  wept  to  hear. 


266  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

'Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe; 
Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer ! ' 
So  I  sang  the  same  again, 
While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

.  *  Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book,  that  all  may  read.' 
So  he  vanish'd  from  my  sight ; 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 
And  I  stain'd  the  water  clear, 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 


THE   LAMB 
(From  the  same) 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 
Gave  thee  life,  and  bade  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead; 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight, 
Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice, 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice? 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee; 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee: 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  He  calls  Himself  a  Lamb. 
He  is  meek,  and  He  is  mild, 
He  became  a  little  child. 


WILLIAM   BLAKE  267 

I  a  child  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  His  name. 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  theel 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  theel 


NIGHT 

(From  the  same) 

The  sun  descending  in  the  west, 
The  evening  star  does  shine, 
The  birds  are  silent  in  their  nest, 
And  I  must  seek  for  mine. 

The  moon,  like  a  flower 

In  heaven's  high  bower, 

With  silent  delight, 

Sits  and  smiles  on  the  night. 

Farewell,  green  fields  and  happy  grove, 
Where  flocks  have  ta'en  delight; 
Where  lambs  have  nibbled,  silent  move 
The  feet  of  angels  bright; 

Unseen,  they  pour  blessing, 

And  joy  without  ceasing, 

On  each  bud  and  blossom, 

And  each  sleeping  bosom. 

They  look  in  every  thoughtless  nest, 

Where  birds  are  covered  warm; 

They  visit  caves  of  every  beast, 

To  keep  them  all  from  harm. 
If  they  see  any  weeping 
TLat  should  have  been  sleeping, 
They  pour  sleep  on  their  head, 
And  sit  down  by  their  bed. 


268  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

When  wolves  and  tigers  howl  for  prey 
They  pitying  stand  and  weep, 
Seeking  to  drive  their  thirst  away, 
And  keep  them  from  the  sheep. 
But  if  they  rush  dreadful, 
The  angels,  most  heedful, 
Receive  each  mild  spirit, 
New  worlds  to  inherit. 

And  there  the  lion's  ruddy  eyes 
Shall  flow  with  tears  of  gold: 
And  pitying  the  tender  cries, 
And  walking  round  the  fold: 

Saying :     '  Wrath  by  His  meekness, 

And  by  His  health,  sickness, 

Are  driven  away 

From  our  immortal  day. 

'  And  now  beside  thee,  bleating  lamb, 
I  can  lie  down  and  sleep, 
Or  think  on  Him  who  bore  thy  name, 
Graze  after  thee,  and  weep. 

For  wash'd  in  life's  river, 

My  bright  mane  forever 

Shall  shine  like  the  gold, 

As  I  guard  o'er  the  fold.' 


TO  THE  DIVINE  IMAGE 
(From  the  same) 

To  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 
All  pray  in  their  distress, 

And  to  these  virtues  of  delight 
Return  their  thankfulness. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  269 

For  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 

Is  God  our  Father  dear; 
And  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 

Is  man,  His  child  and  care. 

For  Mercy  has  a  human  heart, 

Pity,  a  human  face; 
And  Love,  the  human  form  divine; 

And  Peace,  the  human  dress. 

Then  every  man,  of  every  clime, 

That  prays  in  his  distress, 
Prays  to  the  human  form  divine ; 

Love,  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace. 

And  all  must  love  the  human  form, 

In  heathen,  Turk,  or  Jew; 
Where  mercy,  love,  and  pity  dwell. 

There  God  is  dwelling  too. 


ON  ANOTHER'S  SORROW 
(From  the  same) 

Can  I  see  another's  woe, 
And  not  be  in  sorrow  too? 
Can  I  see  another's  grief, 
And  not  seek  for  kind  relief? 

Can  I  see  a  falling  tear, 
And  not  feel  my  sorrow's  share? 
Can  a  father  see  his  child 
Weep,  nor  be  with  sorrow  fill'd? 

Can  a  mother  sit  and  hear, 
An  infant  groan,  an  infant  fear? 
~No,  no!  never  can  it  be! 
Never,  never  can  it  be! 


270  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

And  can  He,  who  smiles  on  all, 
Hear  the  wren,  with  sorrow  small, 
Hear  the  small  bird's  grief  and  care, 
Hear  the  woes  that  infants  bear? 

And  not  sit  beside  the  nest, 
Pouring  Pity  in  their  breast, 
And  not  sit  the  cradle  near, 
Weeping  tear  on  infant's  tear? 

And  not  sit  both  night  and  day, 
Wiping  all  our  tears  away? 
Oh,  no !  never  can  it  be ! 
Never,  never  can  it  be! 

He  doth  give  His  joy  to  all : 
He  becomes  an  infant  small 
He  becomes  a  man  of  woe, 
He  doth  feel  the  sorrow  too. 

Think  not  thou  canst  sigh  a  sigh, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  by : 
Think  not  thou  canst  weep  a  tear, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  near. 

Oh!  He  gives  to  us  His  joy, 
That  our  griefs  He  may  destroy. 
Till  our  grief  is  fled  and  gone 
He  doth  sit  by  us  and  moan. 

THE  TIGER 
(From  The  Songs  of  Experience,  1794) 

Tiger,  Tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forest  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Framed  thy  fearful  symmetry? 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  271 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  that  fire  within  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dared  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dared  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart? 
When  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  and  what  dread  feet? 

What  the  hammer,  what  the  chain, 
Knit  thy  strength  and  forged  thy  brain? 
What  the  anvil?     What  dread  grasp 
Dared  thy  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  water'd  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee? 


AH!  SUNFLOWER 
(From  the  same) 

Ah!  Sunflower!  weary  of  time, 

Who  countest  the  steps  of  the  sun, 
Seeking  after  that  sweet  golden  prime 

Where  the  traveller's  journey  is  done; 
Where  the  Youth  pined  away  with  desire, 

And  the  pale  virgin  shrouded  in  snow, 
Arise  from  their  graves,  and  aspire 

Where  my  sunflower  wishes  to  go) 


272  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

IRobert  Burns 

(1759-1796) 

THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

(1785) 

"  Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor." — Gray. 

My  lov'd,  my  honour'd,  much  respected  friend ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays; 
With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end, 
My    dearest    meed,    a    friend's    esteem    and 

praise : 

To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 
The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester'd  scene; 
The    native    feelings    strong,    the    guileless 

ways, 

What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been; 
Ah!  tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there  I 
ween! 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh; 
The  short'ning  winter-day  is  near  a  close ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  f rae  the  pleugh ; 
The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose : 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes, — 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 

Collects  his   spades,  his  mattocks,   and  hia 

hoes, 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hame- 
ward  bend. 


ROBERT  BURNS  273 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree; 
Th'    expectant    wee-things,    toddlin',    stachei 

through 
To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flichterin'  noise  and 

glee. 

His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin'  bonily, 
His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie's  smile, 

The  lisping  infant,  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  his  weary  kiaugh  and  care  beguile, 
And  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  and  his 
toil. 

Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun'; 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 
A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town: 
Their    eldest    hope,   their    Jenny,    woman- 
grown, 

In  youthfu'  bloom, — love  sparkling  in  her  e'e — 
Comes  hame,  perhaps  to  shew  a  braw  new 

gown, 

Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny-fee, 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

With  joy  unfeign'd,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

And  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers: 
The  social  hours,  swift-wing'd,  unnotic'd  fleet: 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears; 

The  parents  partial  eye  their  hopeful  years; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view; 

The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  and  her  shears, 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new, 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  and  their  mistress's  command, 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey: 
And  mind  their  labors,  wi'  an  eydent  hand, 


274  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

And  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play; 
"  And  O !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway, 
And  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  and  night; 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might: 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord 
aright." 

But,  hark!  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door; 
Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  came  o'er  the  moor, 
To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek; 
With  heart-struck  anxious  care  enquires  his 

name, 

While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak; 
Weel-pleased    the    mother    hears    it's    iiae    wild, 
worthless  rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben; 

A  strappin  youth,  he  takes  the  mother's  eye; 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill-ta'en; 
The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 
The  youngster's   artless   heart   o'erflows  wi' 

joy, 

But  blate  an'  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  behave; 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes   the  youth   sae  bashfu'   and   sae 

grave, 

Weel-pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like 
the  lave. 

Oh,  happy  love!  where  love  like  this  is  found! 

Oh,   heart-felt   raptures!   bliss  beyond   com- 
pare! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round, 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare;— 


ROBERT  BURNS  275 

"If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure 

spare — 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

"Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath   the  milk-white   thorn   that   scents   the 
evening  gale." 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 
A  wretch !  a  villain !  lost  to  love  and  truth ! 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 
Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth? 
Curse    on   his    perjur'd    arts!    dissembling 

smooth ! 
Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil'd? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 
Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child? 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  distrac- 
tion wild? 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board, 

The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food ; 

The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 

That,  'yont  the  hallan  cnugly  chows  her  cood : 

The    dame    brings    forth,    in    complimental 

mood, 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd  kebbuck,  fell ; 

And  aft  he's  prest,  and  aft  he  ca's  it  guid: 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell 
How  't  was  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the 
bell. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide; 

The  sire  turns  o'er,  with  patriarchal  grace, 
The  big  ha'-bible,  ance  his  father's  pride; 


276  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 
His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  and  bare; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion 

glide, 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care; 
And  "  Let  us  worship  God !  "  he  says,  with  solemn 
air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise, 
They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest 

aim; 
Perhaps    *  Dundee's '    wild-warbling    measures 

rise, 

Or  plaintive  '  Martyrs,'  worthy  of  the  name ; 
Or    noble    '  Elgin '    beets    the    heaven-ward 

flame, 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays: 

Compar'd  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame; 
The  tickl'd  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high ; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny; 

Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire; 

Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed  •• 

How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second  name, 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head; 
How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped; 


ROBERT  BURNS  277 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land: 

How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand, 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom   pronounc'd  by 
Heaven's  command. 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays : 

Hope  "  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days, 
There,  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear; 
While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal 
sphere. 

Compar'd  with  this,  how  poor  Keligion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art; 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 
Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart! 
The  Power,  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 
May  hear,  well  pleas'd,  the  language  of   the 

soul; 
And  in  His  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest: 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request, 

That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest, 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 

Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide; 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  pre- 
side. 


278  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

From  scenes  like  these,  old  Scotia's  grandeur 
springs, 

That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd  abroad : 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

"  An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God ;" 

And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road, 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind; 

What  is  a  lordling's  pomp?  a  cumbrous  load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refin'd! 

O  Scotia!  my  dear,  my  native  soil! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is 

sent, 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet 

content ! 

And  O!  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  pre- 
vent 
From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile! 

Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-lov'd 
isle. 

O  Thou!  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide, 

That  stream'd  thro'  great  unhappy  Wallace' 

heart, 

Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part: 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  Thou  art, 
His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward !) 

Oh  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert; 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard 
In   bright   succession   raise,   her   ornament   and 
guard ! 


ROBERT  BURNS  279 


TO  A    MOUSE,   ON    TURNING    HER    UP    IN    HER 
NEST,   WITH  THE  PLOUGH,  NOVEMBER,  1785 

Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie, 
O,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thec, 
Wi'  murd'ring  pattle! 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion, 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion, 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor,  earth-born  companion, 
An'  fellow-mortal! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve; 
What  then?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 
'S  a  sma'  request; 
I'll  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave, 
And  never  miss't! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin! 
It's  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin! 
An'  naething  now  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage  green! 

An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin, 
Baith  snell  an'  keen! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell — 
Till,  crash!  the  cruel  coulter  past 
Out  thro'  thy  cell. 


280  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble ! 
Now  thou's  turned  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 
An'  cranrcuch  cauld ! 

But  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain; 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  agley,    „ 

An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain 
For  promis'd  joy! 

Still,  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee: 
But,  och!  I  backward  cast  my  e'e, 

On  prospects  drear! 

An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear! 

TO   A  MOUNTAIN    DAISY.  ON  TURNING    ONE 
DOWN  WITH  THE  PLOUGH  IN  APRIL,    1786 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stour 

Thy  slender  stem : 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r, 
Thou  bonie  gem. 

Alas !  it's  no  thy  neibor  sweet, 
The  bonie  lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  spreckl'd  breast! 

When   upward-springing,  blythe,  to   greet 
The  purpling  east. 


EGBERT  BURNS  281 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 

Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent-earth 
Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flow'rs  our  gardens  yield, 
High  shelt'ring  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield; 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histy  stibble-field, 
Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise; 

But  now  the  share  upturns  thy  bed, 
And  low  thou  lies! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd, 
And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd  is  laid, 
Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore, 

Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 
And  whelm  him  o'er! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n, 


282  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n, 

To  mis'ry's  brink; 

Till,  wrench'd  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heav'n 
He,  ruin'd,  sink! 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  Daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date; 
Stern  Ruin's  plough-share  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 

Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 
Shall  be  thy  doom! 


TAM    O'SHANTER 
(First  published  1791) 

"Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogillis  full  is  this  Bake." — Gawin 
Douglas 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  neibors,  neibors  meet; 
As  market  days  are  wearing  late, 
And  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate, 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy, 
An'  getting  fou  and  unco  happy, 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Where  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame. 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  TAM  o'  SHANTER, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter: 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses). 

O  Tarn !  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise, 
As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice! 


EGBERT  BUKNS  283 

She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  wast  a  skellum; 
A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  wasna  sober; 
That  ilka  melder  wi'  the  Miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 
That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on 
The  Smith  arid  thee  gat  roarin  fou  on; 
That  at  the  Lord's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton  Jean  till  Monday; 
She  prophesied  that  late  or  soon, 
Thou  wad  be  found  deep  drown'd  in  Doon, 
Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 
By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 


Ah,  gentle  dames!  it  gars  me  greet, 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 
How  mony  lengthen'd  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises! 

But  to  our  tale: — Ae  market  night, 
Tarn  had  got  planted  unco  right, 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely; 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Jennie, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony: 
Tarn  lo'ed  him  like  a  very  brither; 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  an'  clatter; 
And  aye  the  ale  was  growing  better: 
The  Landlady  and  Tarn  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  favours  secret,  sweet,  and  precious: 
The  Souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories; 
The  Landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus: 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 


284  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drown'd  himsel  amang  the  nappy. 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure, 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi'  pleasure: 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tarn  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed; 
Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  forever; 
Or  like  the  Borealis  race, 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place; 
Or  like  the  Rainbow's  lovely  form, 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. — 
Nae  man  can  tether  Time  or  Tide; 
The  hour  approaches  Tarn  maun  ride: 
That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key-stane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in; 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in, 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  't  wad  blawn  its  last; 
The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellow'd: 
That  night,,  a  child  might  understand, 
The  deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel-mounted  on  his  gray  mare  Meg, 
A  better  never  lifted  leg, 
Tarn  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire. 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  gude  blue  bonnet, 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet, 
Whiles  glow'rin  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares; 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Where  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 


ROBERT  BURNS  285 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Where  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 
Where  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck-bane; 
And  thro'  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Where  hunters  fand  the  murder'd  bairn; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Where  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel'. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods, 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole, 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll, 
When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze, 
Thro'  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn! 
What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn! 
Wi'  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil; 
Wi'  usquebae,  we'll  face  the  devil! 
The  swats  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  car'd  na  deils  a  boddle, 
But  Maggie  stood,  right  sair  astonish'd, 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd, 
She  ventur'd  forward  on  the  light; 
And,  wow!  Tarn  saw  an  unco  sight! 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance: 
Nae  cotillion,  brent  new  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels, 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 
A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east, 
There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast; 
A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large, 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge; 
He  screw'd  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 


286  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl. 

Coffins  stood  round,  like  open  presses, 

That  shaw'd  the  Dead  in  their  last  dresses; 

And   (by  some  devilish  cantraip  sleight) 

Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light. 

By  which  heroic  Tarn  was  able 

To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 

A  murderer's  banes,  in  gibbet-airns; 

Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristened  bairns; 

A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  a  rape, 

Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi'  blude  red-rusted; 

Five  scimitars,  wi'  murder  crusted; 

A  garter  which  a  babe  had  strangled: 

A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 

Whom  his  ain  son  of  life  bereft, 

The  gray-hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft ; 

Wi'  mair  of  horrible  and  awfu', 

Which  even  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd  amaz'd,  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious; 
The  Piper  loud  and  louder  blew, 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 
They  reel'd,  they  set,  they  cross'd,  they  cleekit. 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit, 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark! 

Now  Tarn,  O  Tarn !  had  thae  been  queans, 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens! 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flainen, 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen-hunder  linen! — 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  off  my  hurdies, 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonie  burdies! 


ROBERT  BURNS  2 

But  wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Louping  an'  flinging  on  a  crummock, 
I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tarn  kennt  what  was  what  fu'  brawlie 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  waulie, 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 
Lang  after  ken'd  on  Carrick  shore; 
(For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  perish'd  mony  a  bonie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear) ; 
Her  cutty  sark,  o'  Paisley  harn, 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie. 
Ah!  little  ken'd  thy  reverend  grannie, 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('twas  a'  her  riches), 
Wad  ever  grac'd  a  dance  o'  witches! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cour, 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 
(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  strang), 
And  how  Tarn  stood,  like  ane  bewitch'd, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enrich'd: 
Even  Satan  glowr'd  and  fidg'd  fu'  fain, 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and  mains 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 
Tarn  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "  Weel  done,  Cutty^sark ! " 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark: 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke, 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke; 


288  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes, 

When,  pop!  she  starts  before  their  nose; 

As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 

When  "  Catch  the  thief !  "  resounds  aloud ; 

So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 

Wi'  mony  an  eldritch  skreich  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Tarn !  ah,  Tarn !  thou  '11  get  thy  f airin  I 
In  hell  they  '11  roast  thee  like  a  herrin ! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin ! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woef u'  woman ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy-utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  o'  the  brig; 
There,  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  darena  cross! 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake ! 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tarn  wi'  furious  ettle; 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle! 
Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail: 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump, 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read. 
Ilk  man,  and  mother's  son,  take  heed: 
Whene'er  to  Drink  you  are  inclin'd, 
Or  Cutty-sarks  rin  in  your  mind, 
Think  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear; 
Remember  Tarn  o'  Shanter's  mare. 


ROBERT  BURNS  289 


BRUCE'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY  AT 
BANNOCKBURN 

(1793) 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  WALLACE  bled, 
Scots,  wham  BRUCE  has  often  led; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  Victorie! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour; 
See  approach  proud  EDWARD'S  power — 
Chains  and  Slaverie! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee! 

Wha,  for  Scotland's  King  and  Law, 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
FREEMAN  stand,  or  FREEMAN  fa', 
Let  him  on  wi'  me! 

By  Oppression's  woes  and  pains! 
By  your  Sons  in  servile  chains! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  free ! 

Lay  the  proud  Usurpers  low ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 
LIBERTY'S  in  every  blow ! — 
Let  us  Do  or  Die ! 


290  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

THE  BANKS  OF  BOON 
(Second  version,  1791) 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair  ? 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care! 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 
That  sings  upon  the  bough! 

Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 
When  my  fause  Luve  was  true. 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird. 
That  sings  beside  thy  mate; 

For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 
And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonie  Doon, 
To  see  the  woodbine  twine; 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  Luve, 
And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Upon  its  thorny  tree; 
But  my  fause  Luver  staw  the  rose, 

And  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Upon  a  morn  in  June; 
And  sae  I  flourished  on  the  morn, 

And  sae  was  pu'd  or  noon. 


EOBEET  BURNS  291 

A  RED,  RED  ROSE 

•  (1793) 

O  my  Luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose, 

That's  newly  sprung  in  June: 
O  my  Luve's  like  the  melodie 

That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I; 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun: 

And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear. 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare-thee-weel,  my  only  Luve! 

And  fare-thee-weel  awhile! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  Luve, 

Tho'  't  were  ten  thousand  mile! 

IS  THERE,   FOR  HONEST  POVERTY 

(1795) 
(Tune—" For  a'  that") 

Is  there  for  honest  Poverty, 

That  hings  his  head,  an'  a'  that; 
The  coward  slave — we  pass  him  by, 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure  an'  a'  that, 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 

The  Man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 


292  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hoddin  grey,  an'  a'  that; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  that : 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that; 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor. 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  an'  stares  an'  a'  that; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that: 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

His  ribband,  star,  an'  a'  that: 
The  man  o'  independent  mind, 

He  looks  an'  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith,  he  maunna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  dignities  an'  a'  that; 
The  pith  o'  sense,  an'  pride  o'  worth, 

Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

(As  come  it  will  for  a'  that,) 
That  Sense  and  Worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

Shall  bear  the  gree,  an'  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

It's  coming  yet  for  a'  that, 
That  Man  to  Man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  293 

O,  WERT  THOU  IN  THE  CAULD  BLAST 

(1796) 

O  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast, 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I'd  shelter  thee,  I'd  shelter  thee; 
Or  did  Misfortune's  bitter  storms 

Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw, 
Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom, 

To  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a'. 

Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  black  and  bare,  sae  black  and  bare5 
The  desert  were  a  Paradise, 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there; 
Or  were  I  monarch  o'  the  globe, 

Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign, 
The  brightest  jewel  in  my  Crown 

Wad  be  my  Queen,  wad  be  my  Queen. 

MtUiam  Morfcswortb 

1770-1850 
LINES 

COMPOSED  A    FEW    MILES    ABOVE    TINTERN    ABBEY,     ON    RE- 
VISITING  THE   BANKS  OP   THE   WYE   DURING   A   TOUR 

(July  13,  1798) 

Five  years  have  past;   five   summers,  with  the 

length 

Of  five  long  winters !  and  again  I  hear 
These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 
With  a  sweet  inland  murmur. — Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 


294  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion;  and  connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 
The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 
These    plots    of    cottage-ground,    these    orchard- 
tufts, 

Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits, 
Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 
'Mid  groves  and  copses.     Once  again  I  see 
These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little  lines 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild;  these  pastoral  farms, 
Green  to  the  very  door;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 
Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees ! 
With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 
Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 
Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 
The  hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 

Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration :— feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure:  such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered,  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.    Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime;  that  blessed  moods 
In  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world, 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  295 

Is  lightened: — that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul; 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 

Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh !  how  oft — 
In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 

0  sylvan  Wye!     Thou  wanderer  thro'  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee! 

And   now,   with   gleams   of   half -extinguished 

thought, 

With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 
The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again: 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope, 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was  when 

first 

1  came  among  these  hills;  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  nature  led :  more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads  than  one 
Who   sought   the   thing  he   loved.    For   Nature 

then 


296  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 

To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 

What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 

Haunted  me  like  a  passion:  the  tall  rock, 

The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 

Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 

An  appetite;  a  feeling  and  a  love, 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 

By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 

Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is  past, 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Nor  for  this 

Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur;  other  gifts 

Have  followed;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 

Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned 

To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth;  but  hearing  oftentimes 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sublime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 

And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man : 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I 

still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 
And  mountains;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From    this    green    earth;    of    all    the    mighty 

world 

Of  eye,  and  ear, — both  what  they  half  create. 
And  what  perceive;  well  pleased  to  recognize 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  297 

In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 

If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay: 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river;  thou,  my  dearest  Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend;  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh!  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
My  dear,  dear  Sister!  and  this  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her;  'tis  her  privilege 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy:  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk; 
And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee :  and,  in  after  years, 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure;  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies;  oh!  then, 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 


298  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Should    be    thy    portion,    with    what    healing 

thoughts 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 
And  these  my  exhortations!     Nor,  perchance — 
If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 
Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these 

gleams 

Of  past  existence — wilt  thou  then  forget 
That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 
We  stood  together ;  and  that  I,  so  long 
A  worshipper  of  Xature,  hither  came 
Unwearied  in  that  service :  rather  say 
With  warmer  love — oh !  with  far  deeper  zeal 
Of  holier  love.     Nor  will  thou  then  forget, 
That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 
And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy 

sake! 

EXPOSTULATION  AND  REPLY 

(1798) 

"  Why,  William,  on  that  old  gray  stone 
Thus  for  the  length  of  half  a  day, 
Why,  William,  sit  you  thus  alone, 
And  dream  your  time  away? 

Where  are  your  books? — that  light  bequeathed 
To  Beings  else  forlorn  and  blind! 
Up!  up!  and  drink  the  spirit  breathed 
From  dead  men  to  their  kind. 

You  look  round  on  your  Mother  Earth, 
As  if  she  for  no  purpose  bore  you ;  ' 
As  if  you  were  her  first-born  birth, 
And  none  had  lived  before  you ! " 


WILLIAM  WOKDS WORTH  299 

One  morning  thus,  by  Esthwaite  lake, 
When  life  was  sweet,  I  knew  not  why, 
To  me  my  good  friend  Matthew  spake, 
And  thus  I  made  reply: 

"  The  eye — it  cannot  choose  but  see ; 
We  cannot  bid  the  ear  be  still; 
Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be, 
Against  or  with  our  will. 

Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  Powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress; 
That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 

Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum 
Of  things  forever  speaking, 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come, 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking? 

— Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone, 

Conversing  as  I  may, 

I  sit  upon  this  old  gray  stone, 

And  dream  my  time  away." 


THE  TABLES  TURNED 

AN    EVENING    SCENE    ON    THE    SAME    SUBJECT 

(1798) 

Up !  up !  my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books ; 
Or  surely  you  '11  grow  double: 
Up !  up !  my  Friend,  and  clear  your  looks ; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble? 

The  sun,  above  the  mountain's  head, 

A  freshening  lustre  mellow 

Through  all  the  long  green  fields  has  spread, 

His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 


300  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Books!  'tis  a  dull  and  endless  strife: 
Come,  hear  the  woodland  linnet, 
How  sweet  his  music!  on  my  life, 
There's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 

And  hark !  how  blithe  the  throstle  sings ! 
He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher: 
Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things, 
Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth, 
Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 
Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness. 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings; 
Our  meddling  intellect 
Mis-shapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things : 
We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art ; 
Close  up  those  barren  leaves; 
Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 
That  watches  and  receives. 

THREE  YEARS  SHE  GREW 
(1799) 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower- 
Then  Nature  said,  "  A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown; 
This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  Lady  of  my  own. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  301 

Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse:  and  with  me 

The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her;  for  her  the  willow  bend; 
Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  Storm, 
Grace  that  shall  mold  the  Maiden's  form 
By  silent  sympathy. 

The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round. 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell; 

Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 

While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run! 


302  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 

This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene; 

The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 


SHE  DWELT  AMONG  THE  UNTRODDEN  WAYS 
(1799) 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 

And  very  few  to  love: 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye ! 
— Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 

The  difference  to  me! 


If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  steps 
Up  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll, 
You  will  suppose  that  with  an  upright  path 
Your  feet  must  struggle;  in  such  bold  ascent 
The  pastoral  mountains  front  you,  face  to  face. 
But,  courage!  for  around  that  boisterous  brook 
The  mountains  have  all  opened  out  themselves, 
And  made  a  hidden  valley  of  their  own. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  303 

No  habitation  can  be  seen;  but  they 

Who  journey  thither  find  themselves  alone 

With  a  few  sheep,  with  rocks  and  stones,  and 

kites 

That  overhead  are  sailing  in  the  sky. 
It  is  in  truth  an  utter  solitude; 
Nor  should  I  have  made  mention  of  this  Dell 
But  for  one  object  which  you  might  pass  by, 
Might  see  and  notice  not.     Beside  the  brook 
Appears  a  straggling  heap  of  unhewn  stones: 
And  to  that  simple  object  appertains 
A  story  unenriched  with  strange  events, 
Yet  not  unfit,  I  deem,  for  the  fireside, 
Or  for  the  summer  shade.     It  was  the  first 
Of  those  domestic  tales  that  spake  to  me 
Of  Shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,  men 
Whom  I  already  loved : — not  verily 
For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and  hills 
Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode. 
And  hence  this  Tale,  while  I  was  yet  a  Boy 
Careless  of  books,  yet  having  felt  the  power 
Of  Nature,  by  the  gentle  agency 
Of  natural  objects,  led  me  on  to  feel 
For  passions  that  were  not  my  own,  and  think 
(At  random  and  imperfectly  indeed) 
On  man,  the  heart  of  man,  and  human  life. 
Therefore,  although  it  be  a  history 
Homely  and  rude,  I  will  relate  the  same 
For  the  delight  of  a  few  natural  hearts; 
And,  with  yet  fonder  feeling,  for  the  sake 
Of  youthful  Poets,  who  among  these  hills 
Will  be  my  second  self  when  I  am  gone. 

Upon  the  forest-side  in  Grasmere  Vale 
There  dwelt  a  Shepherd,  Michael  was  his  name; 
An  old  man,  stout  of  heart,  and  strong  of  limb. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 


304  THOMSON   TO  TENNYSON 

Of  an  unusual  strength :  his  mind  was  keen, 
Intense,  and  frugal,  apt  for  all  affairs, 
And  in  his  shepherd's  calling  he  was  prompt 
And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 
Hence  had  he  learned  the  meaning  of  all  winds, 
Of  blasts  of  every  tone;  and,  oftentimes, 
When  others  heeded  not,  he  heard  the  South 
Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 
Of  bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills. 
The  Shepherd,  at  such  warning,  of  his  flock 
Bethought  him,  and  he  to  himself  would  say, 
"  The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for  me !  " 
And,  truly,  at  all  times,  the  storm,  that  drives 
The  traveller  to  a  shelter,  summoned  him 
Up  to  the  mountains:  he  had  been  alone 
Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists, 
That  came  to  him,  and  left  him,  on  the  heights. 
So  lived  he  till  his  eightieth  year  was  past. 
And  grossly  that  man  errs,  who  should  suppose 
That  the  green  valleys,  and  the  streams  and  rocks 
Were     things     indifferent     to     the     Shepherd's 

thoughts. 
Fields,    where    with    cheerful    spirits    he    had 

breathed 

The  common  air;  hills,  which  with  vigorous  step 
He  had  so  often  climbed ;  which  had  impressed 
So  many  incidents  upon  his  mind 
Of  hardship,  skill  or  courage,  joy  or  fear; 
Which,  like  a  book,  preserved  the  memory 
Of  the  dumb  animals  whom  he  had  saved, 
Had  fed  or  sheltered,  linking  to  such  acts 
The  certainty  of  honourable  gain, 
Those  fields,  those  hills — what  could  they  less? 

had  laid 

Strong  hold  on  his  affections,  were  to  him 
A  pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love. 
The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  305 

His  days  had  not  been  passed  in  singleness. 

His  Helpmate  was  a  comely  matron,  old — 

Though  younger  than  himself  full  twenty  years. 

She  was  a  woman  of  a  stirring  life, 

Whose  heart  was  in  her  house :  two  wheels  she  had 

Of  antique  form ;  this  large,  for  spinning  wool ; 

That  small,  for  flax;  and  if  one  wheel  had  rest, 

It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work. 

The  Pair  had  but  one  inmate  in  their  house, 

An  only  Child,  who  had  been  born  to  them 

When  Michael,  telling  o'er  his  years,  began 

To  deem  that  he  was  old, — in  shepherd's  phrase, 

With  one  foot  in  the  grave.     This  only  Son, 

With  two  brave  sheep-dogs  tried  in  many  a  storm, 

The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth, 

Made  all  their  household.     I  may  truly  say 

That  they  were  as  a  proverb  in  the  vale 

For  endless  industry.     When  day  was  gone, 

And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 

The  Son  and  Father  were  come  home,  even  then, 

Their  labor  did  not  cease;  unless  when  all 

Turned  to  the  cleanly  supper-board,  and  there, 

Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimmed  milk, 

Sat  round  the  basket  piled  with  oaten  cakes, 

And  their  plain  home-made  cheese.     Yet  when 

the  meal 

Was  ended,  Luke  (for  so  the  Son  was  named) 
And  his  old  Father  both  betook  themselves 
To  such  convenient  work  as  might  employ 
Their  hands  by  the  fire-side;  perhaps  to  card 
Wool  for  the  Housewife's  spindle,  or  repair 
Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe, 
Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 

Down  from  the  ceiling,  by  the  chimney's  edge, 
That  in  our  ancient  uncouth  country  style 
With  huge  and  black  projection  overbrowed 


306  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 

Of  day  grew  dim  the  Housewife  hung  a  lamp; 

An  aged  utensil,  which  had  performed 

Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 

Early  at  evening  did  it  burn — and  late, 

Surviving  comrade  of  uncounted  hours, 

Which,  going  by  from  year  to  year,  had  found, 

And  left  the  couple  neither  gay  perhaps 

Nor  cheerful,  yet  with  objects  and  with  hopes, 

Living  a  life  of  eager  industry. 

And  now,  when  Luke  had  reached  his  eighteenth 

year, 

There  by  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they  sat, 
Father  and  Son,  while  far  into  the  night 
The  Housewife  plied  her  own  peculiar  work, 
Making  the  cottage  through  the  silent  hours 
Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer  flies. 
This  light  was  famous  in  its  neighborhood, 
And  was  a  public  symbol  of  the  life 
That  thrifty  Pair  had  lived.     For,  as  it  chanced, 
Their  cottage  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground 
Stood  single,  with  large  prospect,  north  and  south, 
High  into  Easedale,  up  to  Dunmail-Raise, 
And  westward  to  the  village  near  the  lake; 
And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular 
And  so  far  seen,  the  House  itself,  by  all 
Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale, 
Both  old  and  young,  was  named  The  Evening 

Star. 

Thus  living  on  through  such  a  length  of  years, 
The  Shepherd,  if  he  loved  himself,  must  needs 
Have  loved  his  Helpmate;  but  to  Michael's  heart 
This  son  of  his  old  age  was  yet  more  dear — 
Less  from  instinctive  tenderness,  the  same 
Fond  spirit  that  blindly  works  in  the  blood  of 

all— 
Than  that  a  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  307 

That  earth  can  offer  to  declining  man, 

Brings     hope     with     it,     and     forward-looking 

thoughts, 

And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 
By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail. 
Exceeding  was  the  love  he  bare  to  him, 
His  heart  and  his  heart's  joy!     For  oftentimes 
Old  Michael,  while  he  was  a  babe  in  arms, 
Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone 
For  pastime  and  delight,  as  is  the.  use 
Of  fathers,  but  with  patient  mind  enforced 
To  acts  of  tenderness;  and  he  had  rocked 
His  cradle,  as  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand. 

And,  in  a  later  time,  ere  yet  the  Boy 
Had  put  on  boy's  attire,  did  Michael  love, 
Albeit  of  a  stern  unbending  mind, 
To  have  the  Young  one  in  his  sight,  when  he 
Wrought  in  the  field,  or  on  his  shepherd's  stool 
Sate  with  a  fettered  sheep  before  him  stretched 
Under  the  large  old  oak,  that  near  his  door 
Stood  single,  and,  from  matchless  depth  of  shade. 
Chosen  for  the  Shearer's  covert  from  the  sun, 
Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  called 
The  Clipping  Tree,  a  name  which  yet  it  bears. 
There  while  they  two  were  sitting  in  the  shade, 
With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and  blithe, 
Would  Michael  exercise  his  heart  with  looks 
Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestowed 
Upon  the  Child,  if  he  disturbed  the  sheep 
By  catching  at  their  legs,  or  with  his  shouts 
Scared  them,   while  they  lay   still  beneath  the 
shears. 

And  when  by  Heaven's  good  grace  the  boy 

grew  up 

A  healthy  Lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old; 


308  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut 
With  his  own  hand  a  sapling,  which  he  hooped 
With  iron,  making  it  throughout  in  all 
Due  requisites  a  perfect  shepherd's  staff, 
And  gave  it  to  the  Boy ;  wherewith  equipt 
He  as  a  watchman  oftentimes  was  placed 
At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock ; 
And,  to  his  office  prematurely  called, 
There  stood  the  urchin,  as  you  will  divine, 
Something  between  a  hindrance  and  a  help ; 
And  for  this  cause  not  always,  I  believe, 
Receiving  from  his  Father  hire  of  praise; 
Though  naught  was  left  undone  which  staff,  or 

voice, 
Or  looks,  or  threatening  gestures,  could  perform. 

But  soon,  as  Luke,  full  ten  years  old,  could 

stand 

Against  the  mountain  blasts,  and  to  the  heights, 
Not  fearing  toil,  nor  length  of  weary  ways, 
He  with  his  Father  daily  went,  and  they 
Were  as  companions,  why  should  I  relate 
That  objects  which  the  Shepherd  loved  before 
Were  dearer  now  ?  that  from  the  Boy  there  came 
Feelings  and  emanations — things  which  were 
Light  to  the  sun  and  music  to  the  wind : 
And  that  the  old  Man's  heart  seemed  born  again  ? 

Thus  in  his  Father's  sight  the  Boy  grew  up; 
And  now,  when  he  had  reached  his  eighteenth 

year, 
He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 

While  in  this  sort  the  simple  household  lived 
From  day  to  day,  to  Michael's  ear  there  came 
Distressful  tidings.     Long  before  the  time 
Of  which  I  speak,  the  Shepherd  had  been  bound 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH  309 

In  surety  for  his  brother's  son,  a  man 

Of  an  industrious  life,  and  ample  means; 

But  unforeseen  misfortunes  suddenly 

Had  prest  upon  him;  and  old  Michael  now 

Was  summoned  to  discharge  the  forfeiture, 

A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 

Than    half    his    substance.      This    unlooked-for 

claim,  • 

At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 
More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  supposed 
That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost. 
As  soon  as  he  had  armed  himself  with  strength 
To  look  his  trouble  in  the  face,  it  seemed 
The  Shepherd's  sole  resource  to  sell  at  once 
A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 
Such  was  his  first  resolve;  he  thought  again, 
And  his  heart  failed  him.     "  Isabel,"  said  he, 
Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the  news, 
"  I  have  been  toiling  more  than  seventy  years, 
And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God's  love 
Have  we  all  lived ;  yet  if  these  fields  of  ours 
Should  pass  into  a  stranger's  hand,  I  think 
That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 
Our  lot  is  a  hard  lot;  the  sun  himself 
Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I; 
And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  fool  at  last 
To  my  own  family.     An  evil  man 
That  was,  and  made  an  evil  choice,  if  he 
Were  false  to  us;  and  if  he  were  not  false, 
There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like  this 
Had  been  no  sorrow.     I  forgive  him; — but 
'Twere  better  to  be  dumb  than  to  talk  thus. 

When  I  began,  my  puj-pose  was  to  speak 
Of  remedies  and  of  a  cheerful  hope. 
Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel;  the  land 
Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free; 


310  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

He  shall  possess  it  free  as  is  the  wind 
That  passes  over  it.     We  have,  thou  know'st, 
Another  kinsman — he  will  be  our  friend 
In  this  distress.    He  is  a  prosperous  man, 
Thriving  in  trade — and  Luke  to  him  shall  go, 
And  with  his  kinsman's  help  and  his  own  thrift 
He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 
•  He  may  return  to  us.     If  here  he  stay, 
What  can  be  done?        Where  everyone  is  poor, 
What  can  be  gained  ? " 

At  this  the  old  Man  paused, 
And  Isabel  sat  silent,  for  her  mind 
Was  busy,  looking  back  into  past  times. 
There's  Richard  Bateman,  thought  she  to  herself, 
He  was  a  parish-boy — at  the  church-door 
They  made  a  gathering  for  him,  shillings,  pence 
And    half    pennies,    wherewith    the    neighbors 

bought 

A  basket,  which  they  filled  with  peddler's  wares; 
And,  with  this  basket  on  his  arm,  the  lad 
Went  up  to  London,  found  a  master  there, 
Who,  out  of  many,  chose  the  trusty  boy 
To  go  and  overlook  his  merchandise 
Beyond  the  seas;  where  he  grew  wondrous  rich, 
And  left  estates  and  moneys  to  the  poor, 
And,  at  his  birth-place,  built  a  chapel,  floored 
With  marble,  which  he  sent  from  foreign  lands. 
These  thoughts,  and  many  others  of  like  sort, 
Passed  quickly  through  the  mind  of  Isabel, 
And  her  face  brightened.     The  old  Man  was  glad. 
And  thus  resumed : — "  Well,  Isabel !  this  scheme 
These  two  days,  has  been  meat  and  drink  to  me. 
Far  more  than  we  have  lost  is  left  us  yet. 
— We  have  enough — I  wish  indeed  that  I 
Were  younger; — but  this  hope  is  a  good  hope. 
— Make  ready  Luke's  best  garments,  of  the  best 
Buy  for  him  more,  and  let  us  send  him  forth 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  311 

To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  to-night : 
If  he  could  go,  the  boy  should  go  to-night." 
Here  Michael  ceased,  and  to  the  fields  went  forth 
With  a  light  heart.     The  Housewife  for  five  days 
Was  restless  morn  and  night,  and  all  day  long 
Wrought  on  with  her  best  fingers  to  prepare 
Things  needful  for  the  journey  of  her  son. 
But  Isabel  was  glad  when  Sunday  came 
To  stop  her  in  her  work:  for,  when  she  lay 
By    Michael's    side,    she    through    the    last    two 

nights 

Heard  him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his  sleep : 
And  when  they  rose  at  morning  she  could  see 
That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.     That  day  at  noon 
She  said  to  Luke,  while  they  two  by  themselves 
Were  sitting  at  the  door,  "  Thou  must  not  go : 
We  have  no  other  Child  but  thee  to  lose, 
None  to  remember — do  not  go  away; 
For  if  thou  leave  thy  Father,  he  will  die." 
The  youth  made  answer  with  a  jocund  voice; 
And  Isabel,  when  she  had  told  her  fears, 
Recovered  heart.     That  evening  her  best  fare 
Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sat 
Like  happy  people  round  a  Christmas  fire. 

With  daylight  Isabel  resumed  her  work 
And  all  the  ensuing  week  the  house  appeared 
As  cheerful  as  a  grove  in  Spring :  at  length 
The  expected  letter  from  their  kinsman  came, 
With  kind   assurances  that  he  would  do 
His  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  Boy; 
To  which,  requests  were  added,  that  forthwith 
He  might  be  sent  to  him.     Ten  times  or  more 
The  letter  was  read  over;  Isabel 
Went  forth  to  show  it  to  the  neighbors  round; 
Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English  land 
A  prouder  heart  than  Luke's.     When  Isabel 
Had  to  her  house  returned,  the  old  Man  said, 


312  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

"He  shall  depart  to-morrow."     To  this  word 
The  Housewife  answered,  talking  much  of  things 
Which,  if  at  such  short  notice  he  should  go, 
Would  surely  be  forgotten.     But  at  length 
She  gave  consent,  and  Michael  was  at  ease. 
Near    the    tumultuous    brook    of    Green-head 

Ghyll, 

In  that  deep  valley,  Michael  had  designed 
To  build  a  Sheep-fold;  and,  before  he  heard 
The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss, 
For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gathered  up 
A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  streamlet's  edge 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 
With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he  walked: 
And  soon    as    they    had    reached    the    place    he 

stopped, 

And  thus  the  old  Man  spake  to  him :  "  My  Son, 
To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  me :  with  full  heart 
I  look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 
That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth 
And  all  thy  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy. 
I  will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 
Of  our  two  histories;  'twill  do  thee  good 
When  thou  art  from  me,  even  if  I  should  touch 
On  things  thou  canst  not  know  of. — After  thou 
First  earnest  into  the  world — as  oft  befalls 
To  new-born  infants — thou  didst  sleep  away 
Two  days,  and  blessings  from  thy  Father's  tongue 
Then  fell  upon  thee.     Day  by  day  passed  on, 
And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing  love. 
Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 
Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fire-side 
First  uttering,  without  words,  a  natural  tune; 
While  thou,  a  feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy  joy 
Sing  at  thy  mothers  breast.       Month  followed 

month, 
And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  passed 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  313 

And  on  the  mountains ;  else  I  think  that  thou 
Hadst  been  brought  up  upon  thy  Father's  knees. 
But  we  were  playmates,  Luke :  among  these  hills, 
As  well  thou  knowest,  in  us  the  old  and  young 
Have  played  together,  nor  with  me  didst  thou 
Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  boy  can  know." 
Luke  had  a  manly  heart;  but  at  these  words 
He  sobbed  aloud.     The  old  Man  grasped  his  hand, 
And  said,  "  Nay,  do  not  take  it  so — I  see 
That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not  speak. 
Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 
A  kind  "and  a  good  Father :     And  herein 
I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 
Received  at  others'  hands;  for,  though  now  old 
Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  I  still 
Remember  them  who  loved  me  in  my  youth. 
Both  of  them  sleep  together:  here  they  lived, 
As  all  their  Forefathers  had  done;  and  when 
At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were  not  loth 
To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould. 
I  wished  that  thou  shouldst  live  the  life  they 

lived : 

But,  'tis  a  long  time  to  look  back,  my  Son, 
And  see  so  little  gain  from  threescore  years. 
These    fields    were    burdened    when    they    came 

to  me; 

Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 
Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 
I  toiled  and  toiled;  God  blessed  me  in  my  work. 
And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land  was  free. 
It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure 
Another  Master.     Heaven  forgive  me,  Luke, 
If  I  judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 
That  thou  should'st  go." 

At  this  the  old  man  paused. 
Then,  pointing  to  the  stones  near  which   they 

stood 


314  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Thus,  after  a  short  silence,  he  resumed: 
"  This  was  a  work  for  us ;  and  now,  my  Son, 
It  is  a  work  for  me.     But,  lay  one  stone — 
Here,  lay  it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own  handSc 
Nay,  Boy,  be  of  good  hope; — we  both  may  live 
To  see  a  better  day.     At  eighty-four 
I  am  strong  and  hale; — Do  thou  thy  part; 
I  will  do  mine. — I  will  begin  again 
With  many  tasks  that  were  resigned  to  thee : 
Up  to  the  heights,  and  in  among  the  storms, 
Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do 
All  works  which  I  was  wont  to  do  alone, 
Before  I  knew  thy  face. — Heaven  bless  thee,  Boy ! 
Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  beating  fast 
With  many  hopes;  it  should  be  so — yes — yes — 
I  knew  that  thou  couldst  never  have  a  wish 
To  leave  me,  Luke :  thou  hast  been  bound  to  me 
Only  by  links  of  love:     When  thou  art  gone, 
What  will  be  left  to  us !— But,  I  forget 
My  purposes.     Lay  now  the  corner-stone, 
As  I  requested;  and  hereafter,  Luke, 
When  thou  art  gone  away,  should  evil  men 
Be  thy  companions,  think  of  me,  my  Son, 
And  of  this  moment:  hither  turn  thy  thoughts, 
And  God  will  strengthen  thee:  amid  all  fear 
And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I  pray  that  thou 
Mayst  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  Fathers  lived, 
Who,  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 
Bestir  them  in  good  deeds.     Now,  fare  thee  well — 
When  thou  return'st,  thou  in  this  place  wilt  see 
A  work  which  is  not  here — a  covenant 
'Twill  be  between  us;  but,  whatever  fate 
Befall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last, 
And  bear  thy  memory  with  me  to  the  grave." 

The  Shepherd  ended  here;  and  Luke  stooped 
down, 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  315 

And,  as  his  Father  had  requested,  laid 
The  first  stone  of  the  Sheep-fold.     At  the  sight 
The  old  Man's  grief  broke  from  him ;  to  his  heart 
He  pressed  his  Son,  he  kissed  him  and  wept; 
And  to  the  house  together  they  returned. 
Hushed  was   that  House  in  peace,   or  seeming 

peace, 

Ere  the  night  fell : — with  morrow's  dawn  the  Boy 
Began  his  journey,  and  when  he  had  reached 
The  public  way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face; 
And  all  the  neighbors,  as  he  passed  their  doors, 
Came  forth  with  wishes  and  with  farewell  prayers, 
That  followed  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 

A  good  report  did  from  their  Kinsman  come, 
Of  Luke  arid  his  well-doing:  and  the  Boy 
Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wondrous  news, 
Which,    as    the    Housewise    phrased    it,    were 

throughout 

"  The  prettiest  letters  that  were  ever  seen." 
Both  parents  read  them  with  rejoicing  hearts. 
So,  many  months  passed  on;  and  once  again 
The  Shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 
With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts;  and  now 
Sometimes  when  he  could  find  a  leisure  hour 
He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 
Wrought   at   the    Sheep-fold.      Meantime    Luke 

began 

To  slacken  in  his  duty;  and,  at  length, 
He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 
To  evil  courses :  ignominy  and  shame 
Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 
To  seek  a  hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 

There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  love-, 
'Twill  make  a  thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would  overset  the  brain,  or  break  the  heart : 
I  have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who  well 
Remember  the  old  Man,  and  what  he  was 


316  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Years  after  he  had  heard  this  heavy  news. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength.     Among  the  rocks 
He  went,  and  still  looked  up  to  sun  and  cloud, 
And  listened  to  the  wind;  and,  as  before, 
Performed  all  kinds  of  labor  for  his  sheep, 
And  for  the  land,  his  small  inheritance. 
And  to  that  hollow  dell  from  time  to  time 
Did  he  repair,  to  build  the  Fold  of  which 
His  flock  had  need.     'Tis  not  forgotten  yet 
The  pity  which  was  then  in  every  heart 
For  the  old  Man — and  'tis  believed  by  all 
That  many  and  many  a  day  he  thither  went, 
And  never  lifted  up  a  single  stone. 

There,  by  the   Sheep-fold,  sometimes  was   he 

seen, 

Sitting  alone,  or  with  his  faithful  Dog, 
Then  old,  beside  him,  lying  at  his  feet. 
The  length  of  full  seven  years,  from  time  to  time, 
He  at  the  building  of  this  Sheep-fold  wrought, 
And  left  the  work  unfinished  when  he  died. 
Three  years,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel 
Survive  her  husband :  at  her  death  the  estate 
Was  sold,  and  went  into  a  stranger's  hand. 
The  Cottage  which  was  named  The  Evening  Star 
Is   gone — the   plowshare   has   been    through    the 

ground 
On   which   it    stood;    great   changes   have   been 

wrought 

In  all  the  neighborhood: — yet  the  oak  is  left 
That  grew  beside  their  door;  and  the  remains 
Of  the  unfinished  Sheep-fold  may  be  seen 
Beside  the  boisterous  brook  of  Green-head  GhylL 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH  317 


MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP 

(1807) 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 
A  rainbow  in  the  sky: 

So  was  it  when  my  life  began; 

So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man; 

So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 
Or  let  me  die! 

The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man; 

And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 

Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

THE  SOLITARY  REAPER 

(1807) 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain; 
O,  listen !  for  the  Vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands: 
A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? — 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago: 


318  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again? 

Whatever  the  theme,  the  Maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending; — 
I  listened,  motionless  and  still; 
And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

ODE 

CmMATIGNS      OP     IMMORTALITY     FROM     RECOLLECTIONS     OP 

EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

(1803-6) 

I. 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ; — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 

The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no 
more. 

II. 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  Rose, 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare, 

Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair; 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH  319 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the 
earth. 

III. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 

To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong: 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep ; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  sea 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday; — 

Thou  Child  of  Joy, 

Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou 
happy  Shepherd-boy! 

IV. 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 
O  evil  day!  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  Children  are  culling 
On  every  side, 


320  THOMSON  TO   TENNYSON 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 

Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines  warm 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm : — 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear ! 

— But  there's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone: 
The  Pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat: 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 

v. 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar: 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home: 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  He  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

"•     He  sees  it  in  his  joy; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

VI. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  321 

And,  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind, 
And  no  unworthy  aim, 
The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 

To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 
Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 

And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

VII. 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "  humorous  stage  " 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity; 
Thou  best  Philosopher,  \vho  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 


322  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet!  Seer  blest! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight. 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life! 

IX. 

O  joy!  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  dcth  live, 
That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction:  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With   new-fledged    hope    still    fluttering    in    his 

breast : — 

Xot  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  323 

High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised: 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence:  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

x. 

Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May! 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so 

bright 
Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 


324  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which  having  been  must  ever  be; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

XI. 

And    O,    ye    Fountains,    Meadows,   Hills    and 

Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 
I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet; 

The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

"  I  WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A   CLOUD  " 

(1807) 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH  325 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay: 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced ;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a  jocund  company: 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought: 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude: 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

"SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT" 

(1807) 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight; 

A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament; 

Her  eyes  are  stars  of  Twilight  fair; 

Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn; 

A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  way-lay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty; 


326  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 

A  Creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eyes  serene 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine; 

A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  traveller  between  life  and  death; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 

A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned, 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 

And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 

With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

ODE  TO  DUTY 

(1807) 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God! 

O  Duty!  if  that  name  thou  love 

Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 

When  empty  terrors  overawe; 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free; 

And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth: 
Glad  Hearts!  without  reproach  or  blot; 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not. 
Long  may  the  kindly  impulse  last ! 
But  thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teach  them  to 
stand  fast! 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  327 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security. 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 

Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed; 

Yet  seek  thy  firm  support  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried; 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust : 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I 
may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires : 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face: 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Thee,  are 
fresh  and  strong. 


328  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 
I  call  thee:  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 
Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give ; 
And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me 
live! 

SONNETS 
WRITTEN  IN  LONDON,   SEPTEMBER,   1802 

O  Friend!  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 

For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest, 

To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 

For  show;  mean  handy-work  of  craftsman,  cook, 

Or  groom! — We  must  run  glittering  like  a  brook 

In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest: 

The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best: 

No  grandeur  now  -in  nature  or  in  book 

Delights  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense, 

This  is  idolatry :  and  these  we  adore : 

Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more : 

The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 

Is  gone;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 

And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 

LONDON,  1802 

Milton!  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee :  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men; 
Oh !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  329 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart: 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea : 
Pure  as  the   naked   heavens,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

"WHEN  I  HAVE  BORNE  IN  MEMORY" 

(1802) 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 
Great  Nations,  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 
When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert 
The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  unnamed 
I  had,  my  Country ! — am  I  to  be  blamed  ? 
Now,  when  I  think  of  Thee,  and  what  Thou  art, 
Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed, 
For  dearly  must  we  prize  thee;  we  who  find 
In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men; 
And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled: 
What  wonder  if  a  Poet  now  and  then, 
Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 
Felt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child! 

COMPOSED  UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE, 
SEPTEMBER  3,  1802 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair : 

Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 

A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 

This  City  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning;  silent,  bare, 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 

Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky ; 

All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 

In  his  first  splendour  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 

Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep! 


330  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 
Dear  God !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 

COMPOSED  UPON  THE  BEACH,   NEAR  CALAIS. 
AUGUST,  1802 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free; 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 

Breathless  with  adoration;  the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea. 

Listen!  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  Child !  dear  Girl !  that  walkest  with  me  here, 

If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought. 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine. 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year; 

And  worship'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

"THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US" 

(1806) 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us :  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon ! 
The   Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOK  COLEKIDGE  331 


Samuel  Uaplor 

1772-1834 
THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

IN   SEVEN   PARTS 

(From  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  1798) 
Argument 

How  a  Ship  having  passed  the  Line  was  driven  by 
storms  to  the  cold  Country  towards  the  South  Pole; 
and  how  from  thence  she  made  her  course  to  the  tropi- 
cal Latitude  of  the  Great  Pacific  Ocean;  and  of  the 
strange  things  that  befell ;  and  in  what  manner  the 
Ancyent  Marinere  came  back  to  his  own  Country. 

PART  I. 

Hnerameltnetifa"  Jt  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

three  Gallants  And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three, 

ding^feaXand "  'By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glittering  eye 

dataineth  one.  ]^ow  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din.' 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
'  There  was  a  ship,'  quoth  he. 
'  Hold  off !  unhand  me,  gray-beard  loon ! ' 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye- 
bound  by  the       ^^6  Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 

eye    of  the  old  ,  ,     ,  .,  , 

seafaring  man,    And  listens  like  a  three  years7  child : 
to  l£?hKl£   The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 


332 


THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 


The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone: 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyes  Mariner. 

'  The    ship    was    cheered,    the    harbour 

cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 
Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 
Below  the  lighthouse  top. 


The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he ! 


The  Mariner 

tells  how  the 

ship  sailed 

southward  with      A  i     •    i  .  .->         •    i  , 

a  good  wind  and   And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 

k  readSThetU1    Went  d°Wn  int°  the  Sea' 
line. 

Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon — ' 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

GuletW£efh    The  bride  hath  Paced  into  the  hall> 
the  bridal  mu-   Red  as  a  rose  is  she; 

Mariner  con-       Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 

tinueth  his  tale.     The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast, 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

^2  "Sm  Si*11   '  And  now  the  Storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Ward  the  south   Was  tyrannous  and  strong : 

He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings, 

And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow, 
As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


333 


The  land  of  ice, 
and  of  fearful 
sounds  where 
no  living  thing 
was  to  heeeen. 


Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 
And  forward  bends  his  head, 
The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 
And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  sno\* 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold: 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

And     through     the     drifts     the     snowy 

clifts 

Did  send  a  dismal  sheen : 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 


The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around : 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and 

howled, 
Like  noises  in  a  swound ! 


Till  a  great,  sea- 
bird,  called  the 
Albatross,  came 
through  the 
snow-fog,  and 
was  receive_d 
with  great  joy 
and  hospitality. 


Andlo!  the  Al- 
batross prove!  h 
a  bird  of  good 
omen,  and  fo'- 
loweth  the  ehip 
as  it  returned 
northward 
through  fog  and 
floating  ice. 


At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross, 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit; 
The  helmsman  steered  us  through! 

And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind; 
The  Albatross  did  follow, 
And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo! 


334 


THOMSON  TO   TENNYSON 


In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke 

white, 
Glimmered  the  white  moon-shine.' 

ffi™SffPSt  'God  save  thee'  ancient  Mariner! 

biy  killeth  the      From     the     fiends,     that     plague     thee 

pious  bird  of  ,        . 

good  omen,  tflUS  I — 

Why  look'st  thou  so  ? ' — With  my  cross- 
bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross. 


His  shipmates 
cry  out  against 
the  ancient  Ma- 
riner, for  killing 
the  bird  of  good 
luck. 


But  when  the 
fog  cleared  off, 
they  justify  the 
same,  and  thus 
make  them- 
selves accom- 
plices in  the 
crime. 


PART  II. 

The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right; 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blow  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo! 

And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe : 

For  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah  wretch !  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow ! 

Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 

The  glorious  Sun  uprist: 

Then  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

'Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist.' 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


335 


The  fair  breeze 
continues  ;    the 
ship)  enters  the 
Pacific  Ocean, 
and  sails  north- 
ward, even  till  it 
reaches  the 
liue. 

The  ship  hath 
been  suddenly 
becalmed. 


The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  loam  flew, 
The  furrow  followed  free; 
We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt 

down, 

'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea! 


All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 

The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 

Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 

No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 


And  the  Alba- 
tross begins    to 
be  avenged. 


Water,  water,  everywhere, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink; 
Water,  water,  everywhere, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 


The  very  deep  did  rot :  O  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 


About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 


336 


THOMSON   TO  TENNYSON 


A  spirit  had  fol- 
lowed them  ; 
one  of  the  in- 
visible inhabi- 
tants of  this 
Slanet,  neither 
eparted    souls 
nor  angels;  con- 
cerning whom 
the  learned  Jew, 
Josephus,  and 
the  Platonic 
Constantino- 
politan  Michael 
Psellus,  may  be 
consulted.  They 
are  very  numer- 
ous, and  there  is 
no  climate  or 
element  without 
one  or  more. 

The  shipmates, 
in  their  sore  dis- 
tress, would  fain 
throw  the  whole 
guilt  on  the  an- 
cient   Mariner : 
in  sign  whereof 
they  hang  the 
dead  sea-bird 
round  his  neck. 


The  ancient  Ma- 
riner beholdeth 
a  sign  in  the 
element  afar  off. 


At  its  nearer  ap- 
proach, itseem- 
cth  him  to  be  a 
ship ;  and  •  at  a 
dear  ransom  he 


And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

And      every      tongue,      through      uttei 

drought, 

Was  withered  at  the  root; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

Ah !  well-a-day !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 

PART  ITT. 

There  passed  a  weary  time.    Each  throat 

Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A  weary  time!  a  weary  time! 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye, 

When  looking  westward,  I  beheld 

A  something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist; 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist ! 
And  still  it  neared  and  neared: 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite, 
It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 

With  throats   unslaked,  with   black   lips 

baked, 
We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail; 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  337 

'from  the   Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood ! 
bonds  of  thirst.   I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood, 
And  cried,  A  sail!  a  sail! 

With  throats   unslaked,  with  black  lips 

baked, 

Agape  they  heard  me  call: 
A  flash  of  joy.      Gramercy!  they  for  joy  did  grin, 

And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 


!;   See!  seej  (I  cried)  she  tacks  no  more! 

11     -,--•-. 

Hither  to  work  us  weal ; 

fir-it  i  '^i  j_«  i 

r   Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 
tlde?  She  steadies  with  upright  keel! 


The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame. 

The  day  was  well-nigh  done  ! 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun; 

When    that    strange    shape    drove    sud- 

denly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 


And  8traight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with 

ton  of  a  ship.  bars, 

(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace  0 

As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered 

With  broad  and  burning  face. 

Alas  !  (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears  ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres? 


338 


THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 


And  its  ribs  are 
seen  as  bars  on 
the  face  of  the 
setting  Sun. 
The  Spectre- 
Woman  and  her 
death-mate,  and 
no  other  on 
board  the  skele- 
ton ship.     Like 
vessel,  like 
crew  1 


winneth  the  an- 
cient Mariner. 

No  twilight 
within  the 
courts  of  the 
Sun. 


At  the  rising  of 
the  Moon, 


one  after  an- 
other; 


Are   those   her   ribs   through   which   the 

sun 

Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew? 
Is  that  a  Death?  and  are  there  two? 
Is  Death  that  woman's  mate? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  Night-mare  Life-in-Death  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 
And  the  twain  were  casting  dice; 
'  The  game  is  done !  I've  won !  I've  won ! ' 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  Sun's  rim  dips;  the  stars  rush  out; 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark; 
With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  a£  a  cup, 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed 

white ; 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 
Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 
The     horned     Moon,     with     one     bright 

star 
Within  the  nether  tip. 

One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  Moon, 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


339 


Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 


his  shipmates 
drop  down 
dead. 


Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 


But  Life-in-        The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly,- 

Death  begins  , . 

her  work  on  the    ihey  tied  to  bliss  or  woe ! 
riner.nt    &         And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by, 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow! 


The  Wedding- 
Guest  feareth 
that  a  spirit  is 
talking  to  him  ; 


PART  IV. 

'  I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner ! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand! 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 


I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 
And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown.'— 

but  the  ancient    Fear      not       fear      not       thOU      Wedding- 
Mariner  as- 
eureth  him  of  Guest ! 

nndbprocyee'deth   This  body  dropt  not  down. 

to  relate  his 
horrible  pen- 
ance. Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 

Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea! 

And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 

My  soul  in  agony. 


He  despiseth        The  many  men,  so  beautiful ! 

the  creatures  of  ,  n   j      j   j-j  v 

the  calm.  And  they  all  dead  did  he : 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 
Lived  on ;  and  so  did  I. 


340 


THOMSON  TO   TENNYSON 


and  envieth 
that  they  should 
live,  and  so 
many  lie  dead. 


I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
And  drew  my  eyes  away; 
I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray ; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and 

the  sky 

Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 


Hvet?focrnhta      The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 
in  theeye of  the   N"or  rot  nor  reek  did  they: 

The    look    with    which    they    looked    on 
me 

Had  never  passed  away. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high ; 

But  oh !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye ! 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 
And  nowhere  did  abide: 
Softly  she  was  going  up, 
And  a  star  or  two  beside — 

Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main, 
Like  April  hoar-frost  spread; 


dead  men. 


In  his  loneliness 
and  fixedness  he 
yearneth  to- 
wards the  jour- 
neying Moon, 
and  the  stars 
that  still  so- 
journ, yet  still 
move  onward  ; 
and  everywhere 
the  blue  sky  be- 
longs to  them, 
and  is  their  ap- 
pointed rest, 
and  their  native 
country  and 
their  own  natu- 
ral homes, 
which  they  en- 
ter unan- 
nounced, as 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


341 


lords  that  arc 
certainly  ex- 
pected and  yet 
there  is  a  silent 
joy  at  their  ar- 
rival. 

By  the  light  of 
the  Moon  he 
beholdeth  God's 
creatures  of  the 
great  calm. 


But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay, 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 
A  still  and  awful  red. 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I  watched  the  water-snakes : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire: 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 

They     coiled     and     swam;     and     every 

track 
Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 


Their  beauty        Q  happy  living  things!  no  tongue 

and  their  happi- 
ness. 


He  blessetb. 
them  in  his 
heart. 


The  spell  begins 
to  break. 


Their  beauty  might  declare : 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware: 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 

The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


PART    V. 

Oh  sleep !  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 

Beloved  from  pole  to  pole ! 

To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given ! 

She      sent      the    gentle      sleep      from 

heaven, 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 


342 


THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 


By  grace  of  the 
holy  Mother, 
the  ancient  Ma- 
riner is  re- 
freshed with 
rain. 


He  heareth 
sounds  and 
eeeth  strange 
eights  and  com- 
motions in  the 
sky  and  the  ele- 
ment. 


The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew; 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained. 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 
My  garments  all  were  dank ; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs : 
I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind: 
It  did  not  come  anear; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

The  upper  air  burst  into  life! 

And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 

To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ! 

And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 

The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud, 

And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 

And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black 

cloud ; 
The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  Moon  was  at  its  side : 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


343 


the  ship's  c'rew   ^e  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship, 
are  inspired,  and   Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on ! 

the  ship  moves    -r,  .-,     .-,      ,.    ,  .     .  ,     ,       _,_ 

on;  Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 

The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  up- 
rose, 

Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steered,  the   ship  moved 

on; 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew; 
The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 
Where  they  were  wont  to  do ; 
They    raised    their    limbs    like    lifeless 

tools — 
We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee : 
The  body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope 
But  he  said  nought  to  me. 


but  not  by  the 
souls  of  the 
men,  nor  by 
daemons  of 
earth  or  middle 
air,  but  by  a 
blessed  troop  of 
angelic  spirits, 
sent  down  by 
the  invocation 
of  the  guardian 
saint. 


'  I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner ! ' 
Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 
'Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain, 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest: 

For  when  it  dawned — they  dropped  their 

arms, 

And  clustered  round  the  mast; 
Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  theii 

mouths, 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 


344 


THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 


The  lonesome 
Spirit  from  the 
south-pole  car- 
ries on  the  ship 
as  far  as  the 
line,    in  obedi- 
ence to  the 
angelic  tn  op, 
but  still  re- 
qnireth  ven- 
geance. 


Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  Sun; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 
I  heard  the  sky -lark  sing; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 
With  their  sweet  jargoning ! 

And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song, 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe : 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
The  spirit  slid :  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 
Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean : 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


345 


The  Polar 
Spirit's    fellow- 
daemons,  the  in- 
visible inhabi- 
tants of  the  ele- 
ment, take  part 
in  his    wrong  ; 
and  two  of  them 
relate  one  to  the 
other,  that  pen- 
ance long  and 
heavy  for  the 
ancient  Mariner 
hath  been  ac. 
corded  to  the 
Polar  Spirit, 
whoreturneth 
southward. 


But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir, 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 
She  made  a  sudden  bound : 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare; 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 
I  heard  and  in  my  soul  discerned, 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 

'  Is  it  he  ? '  quoth  one,  '  Is  this  the  man  ? 
By  Him  who  died  on  cross, 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 
The  harmless  Albatross. 

'  The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.' 

The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew: 

Quoth  he,  '  The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do.' 

PART  VI. 
FIRST  VOICE 

'  But  tell  me,  tell  me !  speak  again, 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast  ? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing?' 


346 


THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 


The  Mariner 
hath  been  cast 
iuto  a  trance ; 
for  the  angelic 
power  cause!  h 
the  vessel  to 
drive  northward 
faster  than  hu- 
man life  could 
endure. 


SECOND  VOICE 

'.Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 
The  ocean  hath  no  blast ; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see!  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him.' 

FIRST   VOICE 

'  But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind  ? ' 

SECOND  VOICE 

'  The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly !  more  high,  more  high ! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated.' 


ra\'  motion"?*™-   *  w°ke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 
tarded  ;  the  Ma-    As  in  a  gentle  weather  : 

riner  awakes,         )rr,  •    i  .          i  •    i  A     j.r       -»r 

and  his  penance     Iwas  night,  calm  night,  the  Moon  was 
begins  anew.  high, 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 


All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter: 
All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 
That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


347 


uy  Sated. 


The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 
Had  never  passed  away: 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs, 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

And  now  this  spell  was  snapt  :  once  more 
I  viewed  the  ocean  green, 
And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 
Of  what  had  else  been  seen  — 


Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 
And  having  once  turned  round  walks  on, 
And  turns  no  more  his  head; 
Because  he  knows,  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 


But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made: 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 
Yet  she  sailed  softly  too : 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 


And  the  ancient    QR  j  dream  of  joy  J  is  this  indeed 

hoideth  his  na-    The  lighthouse  top  I  see? 

tive  country.         jg  thjg  ^  hm?  ig  thjg  the  kbk? 

Is  this  mine  own  countree? 


348  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour-bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 

0  let  me  be  awake,  my  God! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

The  harbour-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  Moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less, 
That  stands  above  the  rock: 
The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

And    the    bay    was    white    with    silent 

light 

Till  rising  from  the  same, 
ve  the   Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 
dead  bodies,        In  crimson  colours  came. 

and  appear  in       A  little  distance  from  the  prow 

their  own  forms    _,,  .  .      . 

of  light.  Ihose  crimson  shadows  were: 

1  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 
Oh  Christ !  what  saw  I  there ! 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And,  by  the  holy  rood! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man, 
On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand: 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight ! 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 
Each  one  a  lovely  light ; 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  349 

~No  voice;  but  oh!  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars, 

I  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer; 

My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 

And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

The  Pilot  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 

I  heard  them  coming  fast: 

Dear  Lord  in  Heaven !  it  was  a  joy 

The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice: 

It  is  the  Hermit  good! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood. 

PART  VII. 

The  Hermit  of      This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
the  wood  .  j  , 

Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve — 
He  hath  a  cushion  plump : 
It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skiff-boat  neared :  I  heard  them  talk, 

'  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow ! 

Where    are    those    lights    so    many    and 

fair, 
That  signal  made  but  now? ' 


350 


THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 


approacheth 
the  ship  with 
wonder. 


The  ship  sud- 
denly sinketh. 


The  ancient 
Mariner  is  saved 
in  the  Pilot's 
boat. 


'  Strange,    by    my    faith ! '    the    Hermit 

said — 

'  And  they  answered  not  our  cheer ! 
The  planks  look  warped!  and  see  those 

sails, 

How  thin  they  are  and  sere ! 
I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 
Unless  perchance  it  were 

t  Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest-brook  along; 
When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 
That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young.' 

'  Dear  Lord !  it  hath  a  fiendish  look — 
(The  Pilot  made  reply) 
I  am  a-f eared  ' — '  Push  on,  push  on ! ' 
Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship. 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Still  louder  and  more  dread: 
It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

Stunned    by    that    loud    and    dreadful 

sound, 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 
Like    one    that    hath    been    seven    days 

drowned 

My  body  lay  afloat; 
But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 
Within  the  Pilot's  boat. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


351 


The  ancient 
Mariner  earn- 
estly entreateth 
the  Hermit  to 
ehrieve  him ; 
and  the  penance 
of  life  f  alls  on 
him. 


And  ever  and 
anon  through- 
out his  future 
life  an  agony 
constraineth 
him  to  travel 
from  land  to 
land, 


Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips — the  Pilot  shrieked 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit; 
The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes, 
And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars :  the  Pilot's  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

'  Ha !  ha ! '  quoth  he,  '  full  plain  I  see, 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row.' 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 

I  stood  on  the  firm  land! 

The  Hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

'  O  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man ! ' 
The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow. 
'  Say  quick,'  quoth  he,  '  I  bid  thee  say — 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ? ' 

Forthwith     this     frame     of     mine    was 

wrenched 

With  a  woful  agony, 
Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale; 
And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
That  agony  returns: 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 


352  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land  ; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me  : 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door! 
The  wedding-guests  are  there  : 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are: 
And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell, 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer  ! 

O  Wedding-Guest  !  this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea: 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company!  — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

by  his  own  'ex-   Farewell,  farewell  !  but  this  I  tell 
*°ve  and   To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest  ! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 

-r.     ,  ,  ,  .    ,          ,  , 

.Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 


to  «"  things 

that  God  made 

and  loveth. 


He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  353 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone:  and  now  the  Wedding-Guest 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man, 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 


THE  GOOD  GREAT  MAN 

(1802) 
COMPLAINT 

'  How  seldom,  friend !  a  good  great  man  inherits 
Honour  or  wealth  with  all  his  worth  and  pains  1 
It  sounds  like  stories  from  the  land  of  spirits 
If  any  man  obtain  that  which  he  merits 
Or  any  merit  that  which  he  obtains.' 

REPLY 

For  shame,  dear  friend,  renounce  this  canting 
strain ! 

What  would'st  thou  have  a  good  great  man  ob- 
tain? 

Place?  titles?  salary?  a  gilded  chain? 

Or  throne  of  corses  which  his  sword  had  slain? 

Greatness  and  goodness  are  not  means,  but  ends! 

Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends, 

The  good  great  man?  three  treasures,  LOVE  and 

LIGHT, 

And  CALM  THOUGHTS,  regular  as  infants'  breath : 
And  three  firm  friends,  more  sure  than  day  and 

night — 

HIMSELF,  his  MAKER,  and  the  ANGEL  DEATH  ! 


354  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

YOUTH  AND  AGE 

(1822-1832) 

Verse,  a  breezo  mid  blossoms  straying, 
Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine!     Life  went  a-maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 

When  I  was  young! 
When  I  was  young? — Ah,  woful  When! 
Ah!  for  the  change  'twixt  Now  and  Then! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands, 
How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along: — 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide! 
Nought  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather 
When  Youth  and  I  lived  in't  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely;  Love  is  flower-like; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree; 
O !  the  joys,  that  came  down  shower-like, 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 
Ere  I  was  old. 

Ere  I  was  old?    Oh  woful  Ere, 
Which  tells  me,  Youth's  no  longer  here! 
O  Youth !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 
'Tis  known,  that  Thou  and  I  were  one, 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 
It  cannot  be  that  Thou  art  gone! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd: — 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold ! 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe,  that  Thou  art  gone? 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  355 

I  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size: 
But  Spring-tide  blossoms  on  thy  lips 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes! 
Life  is  but  thought:  so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still. 

Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning, 
But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve! 
Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 

When  we  are  old: 

That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking-leave, 
Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest, 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismist ; 
Yet  hath  outstay'd  his  welcome  while, 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 

WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE 

(February  21st,  1827) 

All   Nature  seems   at  work.     Slugs   leave  their 

lair — 

The  bees  are  stirring — birds  are  on  the  wing — 
And  Winter  slumbering  in  the  open  air, 
Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  Spring! 
And  I  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  thing, 
Nor  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,  nor  sing. 
Yet  well  I   ken   the  banks  where   amaranths 

blow, 
Have  traced  the  fount  whence  streams  of  nectar 

flow. 

Bloom,  O  ye  amaranths !  bloom  for  whom  ye  may, 
For  me  ye  bloom  not !  Glide,  rich  streams,  away ! 
With  lips  unbrightened,  wreathless  brow,  I  stroll : 


356  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

And  would  you  learn  the  spells  that  drowse  my 

soul? 

Work  without  Hope  draws  nectar  in  a  sieve, 
And  Hope  without  an  object  cannot  live. 


IRobert  Soutbeg 

1774-1843 
THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM 

(Written  at  Westbury,  1798) 

I. 

It  was  a  summer  evening, 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 
And  he  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun, 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

n. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

Roll  something  large  and  round, 
Which  he  beside  the  rivulet 

In  playing  there  had  found; 
He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 
That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

in. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy. 

Who  stood  expectant  by; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, 
"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 


EGBERT  SOUTHEY  357 

IV. 

"I  find  them  in  the  garden, 

For  there's  many  hereabout; 
And  often  when  I  go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out! 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
"  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 

v. 

"  Now  tell  us  what 't  was  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin,  he  cries; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes; 
"  N"ow  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for." 

VI. 

"It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 

"  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 
But  what  they  fought  each  other  for, 

I  could  not  well  make  out; 
But  every  body  said,"  quoth  he, 

"  That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

VII. 

"  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  fo'rced  to  fly; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

VIII. 

"With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then 


358  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

And  new-born  baby  died; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

IX. 

"  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

x. 

"Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlboro'  won, 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 
"  Why  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing !  " 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 

"Nay    .    .   nay   .    .    my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 
"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

XI. 

"  And  every  body  praised  the  Duke 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 
"  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  ? " 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"  Why  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 
"  But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 


MY  DAYS  AMONG  THE  DEAD  ARE  PAST 

(Written  at  Keswick,  1818) 

I. 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past; 

Around  me  I  behold, 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY  359 

The  mighty  minds  of  old; 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

II. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal, 

And  seek  relief  in  woe; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe, 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedew'd 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

III. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Dead;  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years; 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn, 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears, 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

IV. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead;  anon 

My  place  with  them  will  be, 
And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 

Tkrough  all  Futurity : 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 
That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 


360  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

•Josepb  Blanco  "Cdbite 

1775-1841 

SONNET  TO  NIGHT 
(First  published  1828) 

Mysterious  Night !  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee  by  report  Divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  goodly  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue? 
But  through  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 
Bathed  in  the  hues  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  Host  of  Heaven  came, 
And  lo !  creation  broadened  to  man's  view. 
Who  could  have  guessed  such  darkness  lay  con- 
cealed 

Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun !  or  who  divined 
Whilst  bud,  and  flower,  and  insect  stood  revealed, 
Thou  to  such  countless  worlds  hadst  made  us 

blind? 
Why  should  we,  then,  shun  death  with  anxious 

strife, 
If  Light  conceals  so  much,  wherefore  not  Life? 

Sir  TKftalter  Scott 

1771-1832 

HAROLD'S  SONG  TO  ROSABELLE 
(From  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel) 

CANTO  VI.-XXIII. 

(1805) 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay, 

That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 


WALTER  SCOTT  361 

"  Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew ! 

And,  gentle  ladye,  deign  to  stay! 
Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 

Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 

"  The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white ; 

To  inch  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly; 
The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water-Sprite, 

Whose  screams  forebode  that  wreck  is  nigh. 

"Last  night  the  gifted  Seer  did  view 

A  wet  shrowd  swathed  round  ladye  gay; 

Then  stay  thee,  Fair,  in  Ravensheuch: 

Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day  ?  " — 

"  'Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  heir 
To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 

But  that  my  ladye-mother  there 
Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 

"'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 
And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well, 

But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide, 
If  'tis  not  fill'd  by  Rosabelle.— 

O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night, 

A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam; 

'Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire's  light, 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 

It  ruddied  all  the  copse-wood  glen; 

'Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of  oak, 
And  seen  from  cavern'd  Hawthornden. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud, 
Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncoffin'd  lie, 

Each  Baron,  for  a  sable  shroud. 
Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply. 


362  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Seem'd  all  on  fire  within,  around, 
Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale; 

Shone  every  pillar  foliage -bound, 

And  glimmer'd  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair — 

So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  St.  Clair. 

There  are  twenty  of  Koslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle; 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold — 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle ! 

And  each  St.  Clair  was  buried  there, 

With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell; 

But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  winds  sung, 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 


BALLAD 

ALICE    BRAND 

(From  Tlie  Lady  of  the  Uike,  1810) 

CANTO  IV. 
XII. 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood, 

When  the  mavis  and  merle  are  singing, 
When  the  deer  sweeps  by,  and  the  hounds  are  in 

cry, 
And  the  hunter's  horn  is  ringing. 

"  O  Alice  Brand,  my  native  land 

Is  lost  for  love  of  you; 
And  we  must  hold  by  wood  and  wold, 

As  outlaws  wont  to  do. 


WALTER  SCOTT  363 

"  O  Alice,  'twas  all  for  thy  locks  so  bright, 
And  'twas  all  for  thine  eyes  so  blue, 

That  on  the  night  of  our  luckless  flight, 
Thy  brother  bold  I  slew. 

"  Now  must  I  teach  to  hew  the  beech 

The  hand  that  held  the  glave, 
For  leaves  to  spread  our  lowly  bed, 

And  stakes  to  fence  our  cave. 

"  And  for  vest  of  pall,  thy  fingers  small, 

That  wont  on  harp  to  stray, 
A  cloak  must  shear  from  the  slaughter'd  deer, 

To  keep  the  cold  away." 

"  O  Richard !  if  my  brother  died, 

'Twas  but  a  fatal  chance; 
For  darkling  was  the  battle  tried, 

And  fortune  sped  the  lance. 

"  If  pall  and  vair  no  more  I  wear, 

Nor  thou  the  crimson  sheen, 
As  warm,  we'll  say,  is  the  russet  grey, 

As  gay  the  forest  green. 

"  And,  Richard,  if  our  lot  be  hard, 

And  lost  thy  native  land, 
Still  Alice  has  her  own  Richard, 

And  he  his  Alice  Brand." 

XIII. 

'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  greenwood, 

So  blithe  Lady  Alice  is  singing; 
On  the  beech's  pride,  and  oak's  brown  side, 

Lord  Richard's  axe  is  ringing. 


364  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Up  spoke  the  moody  Elfin  King, 

Who  won'd  within  the  hill, — 
Like  wind  in  the  porch  of  a  ruin'd  church, 

His  voice  was  ghostly  shrill. 

"Why  sounds  yon  stroke  on  beech  and  oak, 

Our  moonlight  circle's  screen? 
Or  who  comes  here  to  chase  the  deer, 

Beloved  of  our  Elfin  Queen? 
Or  who  may  dare  on  wold  to  wear 

The  fairies'  fatal  green? 

"  Up,  Urgan,  up !  to  yon  mortal  hie, 

For  thou  wert  christen'd  man ; 
For  cross  or  sign  thou  wilt  not  fly, 

For  mutter'd  word  or  ban. 

"  Lay  on  him  the  curse  of  the  wither'd  heart, 

The  curse  of  the  sleepless  eye; 
Till  he  wish  and  pray  that  his  life  would  part, 

Nor  yet  find  leave  to  die." 

XIV. 

'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  greenwood, 
Though  the  birds  have  still'd  their  singing; 

The  evening  blaze  doth  Alice  raise, 
And  Richard  is  fagots  bringing. 

Up  Urgan  starts,  that  hideous  dwarf, 

Before  Lord  Richard  stands, 
And,  as  he  cross'd  and  bless'd  himself, 
"  I  fear  not  sign,"  quoth  the  grisly  elf, 

"  That  is  made  with  bloody  hands." 

But  out  then  spoke  she,  Alice  Brand, 

That  woman  void  of  fear, — 
"  And  if  there's  blood  upon  his  hand, 

'Tis  but  the  blood  of  deer."— 


WALTER  SCOTT  365 

''  Now  loud  thou  liest,  thou  bold  of  mood ! 

It  cleaves  unto  his  hand, 
The  stain  of  thine  own  kindly  blood, 

The  blood  of  Ethert  Brand." 

Then  forward  stepp'd  she,  Alice  Brand, 

And  made  the  holy  sign, — 
"  And  if  there's  blood  on  Richard's  hand, 

A  spotless  hand  is  mine. 

"  And  I  conjure  thee,  Demon  elf, 

By  Him  whom  Demons  fear, 
To  show  us  whence  thou  art  thyself, 

And  what  thine  errand  here  ?  " — 


xv. 

"'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  Fairy-land, 

When  fairy  birds  are  singing, 
When  the  court  doth  ride  by  their  monarch's  side, 
With  bit  and  bridle  ringing: 

"  And  gaily  shines  the  Fairy-land — 

But  all  is  glistening  show, 
Like  the  idle  gleam  that  December's  beam 

Can  dart  on  ice  and  snow. 

"And  fading,  like  that  varied  gleam, 

Is  our  inconstant  shape, 
Who  now  like  knight  and  lady  seem, 

And  now  like  dwarf  and  ape. 

"  It  was  between  the  night  and  day, 

When  the  Fairy  King  has  power, 
That  I  sunk  down  in  a  sinful  fray, 
And,  'twixt  life  and  death,  was  snatch'd  away, 

To  the  joyless  Elfin  bower. 


366  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

"  But  wist  I  of  a  woman  bold, 

Who  thrice  my  brow  durst  sign, 
I  might  regain  my  mortal  mold, 

As  fair  a  form  as  thine." 

She  cross'd  him  once — she  cross'd  him  twice — 

That  lady  was  so  brave; 
The  fouler  grew  his  goblin  hue, 

The  darker  grew  the  cave. 

She  cross'd  him  thrice,  that  lady  bold; 

He  rose  beneath  her  hand 
The  fairest  knight  on  Scottish  mold, 

Her  brother,  Ethert  Brand! 

Merry  it  is  in  good  greenwood, 

When  the  mavis  and  merle  are  singing, 
But  merrier  were  they  in  Dunfermeline  gray 
When  all  the  bells  were  ringing. 

EDMUND'S  SONG 
(From  Rokeby,  1812) 

CANTO  III.    XVI. 

O,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there, 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 
And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton-hall, 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  Maiden  on  the  castle  wall 

Was  singing  merrily, — 

CHORUS 

"  O,  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair. 

And  Greta  woods  are  green; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there, 

Than  reign  our  English  queen." — 


WALTER  SCOTT  367 

"  If,  maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me, 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we, 

That  dwell  by  dale  and  down? 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 

As  read  full  well  you  may, 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  speed, 

As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May."- 

CHORUS 

Yet  sung  she,  "  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there, 

Than  reign  our  English  queen. 

"  I  read  you,  by  your  bugle-horn, 

And  by  your  palfrey  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  Ranger  sworn, 

To  keep  the  king's  greenwood. — • 
"  A  Ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  'tis  at  peep  of  light; 
His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night." — 

CHORUS 

Yet  sung  she,  "  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay; 
I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there, 
To  reign  his  Queen  of  May! 

"With  burnish'd  brand  and  musketoon, 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  dragoon, 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum." — 


368  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

"  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum, 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 

CHORUS 

"  And,  O !  though  Brignall  banks  be  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare, 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May! 

"Maiden!  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I'll  die; 
The  fiend,  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead, 
Were  better  mate  than  I! 
And  when  I'm  with  my  comrades  met, 

Beneath  the  greenwood  bough, 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget, 
Nor  think  what  we  are  now. 

CHORUS 

"Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green, 

And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 
Would  grace  a  summer  queen." — 

SONG 

A  WEARY  LOT  IS  THINE 

(From  the  same) 

CANTO  III.  XXVIII. 

"A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine! 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid, 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine! 


-WALTER  SCOTT  369 

A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green, — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew 

My  love! 
No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

"  This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow, 

The  rose  is  budding  fain; 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow, 

Ere  we  two  meet  again." 
He  turn'd  his  charger  as  he  spake, 

Upon  the  river  shore, 
He  gave  his  bridle-reins  a  shake, 

Said,  "Adieu  forever  more, 

My  love ! 
And  adieu  forever  more." — 

SONG 

ALLAN-A-DALE 

(From  the  same) 

CANTO   III.  XXX. 

Allan-a-Dale  has  no  faggots  for  burning, 
Allan-a-Dale  has  no  furrow  for  turning, 
Allan-a-Dale  has  no  fleece  for  the  spinning, 
Yet  Allan-a-Dale  has  red  gold  for  the  winning. 
Come,  read  me  my  riddle !  come,  harken  my  tale ! 
And  tell  me  the  craft  of  bold  Allan-a-Dale. 

The  Baron  of  Ravensworth  prancss  in  pride, 
And  he  views  his  domains  upon  Arkindale  side. 
The  mere  for  his  net,  and  the  land  for  his  game, 
The  chase  for  the  wild,  and  the  park  for  the 

tame; 

Yet  the  fish  of  the  lake,  and  the  deer  of  the  vale. 
Are  less  free  to  Lord  Dacre  than  Allan-a-Dale! 


370  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Allan-a-Dale  was  ne'er  belted  a  knight, 
Though  his  spur  be  as  sharp,  and  his  blade  be  as 

bright ; 

Allan-a-Dale  is  no  baron  or  lord, 
Yet  twenty  tall  yeoman  will  draw  at  his  word; 
And  the  best  of  our  nobles  his  bonnet  will  vail, 
Who  at  Rere-cross  on  Stanmore  meets  Allan-a- 
Dale. 

Allan-a-Dale  to  his  wooing  is  come; 

The  mother,  she  ask'd  of  his  household  and  home : 

"  Though  the  castle  of  Richmond  stand  fair  on 
the  hill, 

My  hall,"  quoth  bold  Allan,  "  shows  gallanter 
still ; 

'Tis  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  with  its  crescent 
so  pale, 

And  with  all  its  bright  spangles !  "  said  Allan-a- 
Dale. 

The  father  was  steel,  and  the  mother  was  stone ; 
They  lifted  the  latch,  and  they  bade  him  begone; 
But  loud,  on  the  morrow,  their  wail  and  their 

cry: 
He  has  laugh'd  on  the  lass  with  his  bonny  black 

eye, 

And  she  fled  to  the  forest  to  hear  a  love-tale, 
And  the  youth  it  was  told  by  was  Allan-a-Dale! 

SONG 

THE   CAVALIER 

(From  the  same) 

CANTO  V.    XX 

While  the  dawn  on  the  mountain  was  misty  and 

gray, 
My  true  love  has  mounted  his  steed  and  away, 


WALTER  SCOTT  371 

Over  hill,  over  valley,  o'er  dale,  and  o'er  down; 
Heaven  shield  the  brave  Gallant  that  fights  for 
the  Crown! 

He  has  doff  d  the  silk  doublet  the  breast-plate  to 

bear, 
He  has  placed  the  steel-cap  o'er  his  long  flowing 

hair, 
From  his  belt  to  his  stirrup  his  broadsword  hangs 

down, — 
Heaven  shield  the  brave  Gallant  that  fights  for 

the  Crown ! 

For  the  rights  of  fair  England  that  broadsword 

he  draws; 

Her  King  is  his  leader,  her  Church  is  his  cause ; 
His  watchword  is  honour,  his  pay  is  renown, — 
God   strike  with   the   Gallant   that   strikes   for 

the  Crown! 

They  may  boast  of  their  Fairfax,  their  Waller, 

and  all 

The  round-headed  rebels  of  Westminster  Hall; 
But  tell  those  bold  traitors  of  London's  proud 

town, 
That  the  spears  of  the  North  have  encircled  the 

Crown. 

There's   Derby   and   Cavendish,   dread   of  their 

foes; 
There's    Erin's    high  Ormond,    and    Scotland's 

Montrose ! 
Would  you  match  the  base  Skippon,  and  Massey, 

and  Brown, 
With  the  Barons  of  England,  that  fight  for  the 

Crown? 


372  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Now  joy  to  the  crest  of  the  brave  Cavalier! 
Be  his  banner  unconquer'd,  resistless  his  spear, 
Till  in  peace  and  in  triumph  his  toils  he  may 

drown, 
In  a  pledge  to  fair  England,  her  Church,  and  her 

Crown. 


HUNTING  SONG 

(1808) 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day; 

All  the  jolly  chase  is  here 

With  hawk,  and  horse,  and  hunting-spear; 

Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 

Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 

Merrily,  merrily,  mingle  they, 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 

Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming, 

Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming; 

And  foresters  have  busy  been 

To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green; 

Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay, 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  green-wood  haste  away; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot,  and  tall  of  size; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made, 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  frayed; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay, 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 


WALTER   SCOTT  373 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay, 
Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay! 
Tell  them  youth,  and  mirth,  and  glee, 
Run  a  course  as  well  as  we; 
Time,  stern  huntsman !  who  can  baulk, 
Stanch  as  hound,  and  fleet  as  hawk; 
Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 
Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay. 

JOCK  OF  HAZELDEAN 

(1816) 

I. 

"Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie? 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ? 
I'll  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride: 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen  " — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

II. 

"  Now  let  this  wilf  u'  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale; 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale ; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen  " — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa* 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

III. 

"A  chain  of  gold  ye  sail  not  lack, 
NOT  braid  to  bind  your  hair; 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 
Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair; 


374  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

And  you,  the  foremost  of  them  a', 
Shall  ride  our  forest-queen " — 

But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 
For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 


IV. 

The  kirk  was  deck'd  at  morning-tide, 

The  tapers  glimmered  fair; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there : 
They  sought  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha'; 

The  ladie  was  not  seen! 
She's  o'er  the  border  and  awa' 

Wi'  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 


MADGE   WILDFIRE'S  SONG 
(From  The  Heart  of  Midlothian,  1818) 

"Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 

Walking  so  early; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush, 

Singing  so  rarely. 

" '  Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird, 
When  shall  I  marry  me  ? ' 

'  When  six  braw  gentlemen 
Kirkward  shall  carry  ye.' 

" '  Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie,  say  truly  ?  ' — 
'  The  grey-headed  sexton, 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 


WALTER  SCOTT  375 

The  glow-worm  o'er  grave  and  stone 

Shall  light  thee  steady; 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing, 

'  Welcome,  proud  lady.'  " 

BORDER  BALLAD 

(From  The  Monastery,  1820) 

I. 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale, 

Why  the  deil  dinna  ye  march  forward  in  order  ? 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale, 
All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  bound  for  the  Border. 
Many  a  banner  spread, 
Flutters  above  your  head, 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story; 
Mount  and  make  ready  then, 
Sons  of  the  mountain  glen, 
Fight  for  the  Queen  and  the  old  Scottish  glory ! 

II. 

Come  from  the  hills  where  the  hirsels  are  graz- 
ing, 

Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the  roe; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing, 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and  the  bow. 
Trumpets  are  sounding, 
War-steeds  are  bounding, 
Stand  to  your  arms  then,  and  march  in  good 

order ; 

England  shall  many  a  day 
Tell  of  the  bloody  fray, 
When  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the  Border! 


376  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

COUNTY  GUY 

(From  Quentin  Durward,  1823) 

"Ah!  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea, 
The  orange-flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  thrill'd  all  day, 

Sits  hush'd  his  partner  nigh; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower,  confess  the  hour, 

But  where  is  County  Guy? 

"  The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade, 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear; 
To  beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above, 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky; 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know — 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? " 


tlbomas  Campbell 

1777-1844 
YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND 

(1800) 

Ye  mariners  of  England 

That  guard  our  native  seas, 

Whose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand  years 

The  battle  and  the  breeze! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe, 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL  377 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 
Shall  start  from  every  wave ! — 
For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 
And  Ocean  was  their  grave: 
Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 
Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 
No  towers  along  the  steep; 
Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves, 
Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 
She  quells  the  floods  below — 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 
Where  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn, 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


378  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

HOHENLINDEN 

(1802) 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  th'  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle  blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow, 
Oh  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank,  and  fiery  Hun, 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 
Wave,  Munich!  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry! 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL  379 

Few,  few,  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding  sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 

BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC 

(1809) 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 

In  a  bold  determin'd  hand, 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine, 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line : 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime; 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death, 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene, 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between — 

"  Hearts  of  oak,"  our  captains  cried,  when  each 

gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 


380  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Again !  again !  again ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back; — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom: 

Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail, 

Or  in  conflagration  pale 

Light  the  gloom. 


Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave ; 

"  Ye  are  brothers !  ye  are  men ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save; 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring: 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King." 


Then  Denmark  blest  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief, 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day; 

While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. 


Now  joy,  old  England,  raise 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 

By  the  festal  cities'  blaze. 

While  the  wine  cup  shines  in  light; 

And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 


.THOMAS  CAMPBELL  381 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave  hearts!  to  Britain's  pride 
Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 
On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, 
With  the  gallant  good  Riou, 
Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  their  grave! 
While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 
And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 
Singing  glory  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave ! 

SONG 
"MEN  OP  ENGLAND" 

Men  of  England !  who  inherit 

Rights  that  cost  your  sires  their  blood, 
Men  whose  undegenerate  spirit 

Has  been  proved  on  land  and  flood: 

By  the  foes  ye've  fought  uncounted, 

By  the  glorious  deeds  ye've  done, 
Trophies  captured — breaches  mounted, 

Navies  conquered — kingdoms  won! 

Yet,  remember,  England  gathers 

Hence  but  fruitless  wreaths  of  fame, 

If  the  patriotism  of  your  fathers 
Glow  not  in  your  hearts  the  same. 

What  are  monuments  of  bravery, 

Where  no  public  virtues  bloom? 
What  avail  in  lands  of  slavery, 

Trophied  temples,  arch  and  tomb? 


382  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Pageants ! — Let  the  world  revere  us 
For  our  people's  rights  and  laws, 

And  the  breasts  of  civic  heroes 
Bared  in  Freedom's  holy  cause. 

Yours  are  Hampden's,  Russell's  glory, 
Sydney's  matchless  fame  is  yours, — 

Martyrs  in  heroic  story, 

Worth  a  hundred  Agincourts! 

We're  the  sons  of  sires  that  baffled 

Crowned  and  mitred  tyranny: 
They  defied  the  field  and  scaffold 
For  their  birthrights — so  will  we! 

SONG 

TO  THE   EVENING   STAH 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  sett'st  the  weary  labourer  free! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  'tis  thou, 

That  send'st  it  from  above, 
Appearing  when  Heaven's  breath  and  brow, 

Are  sweet  as  her's  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
Whilst  the  landscape's  odours  rise, 
Whilst  far-off  lowing  herds  are  heard, 

And  songs,  when  toil  is  done, 
From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirred 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 

Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse; 
Their  remembrancer  in  Heaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art, 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven 

By  absence  from  the  heart. 


THOMAS  MOORE  383 

TTbomas  flfcoore 

1779-1852 

AS  SLOW  OUR  SHIP 
(From  Irish  Melodies,  1807-1834) 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 

Against  the  wind  was  cleaving, 
Her  trembling  pennant  still  look'd  back 

To  that  dear  isle  'twas  leaving. 
So  loath  we  part  from  all  we  love, 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us; 
So  turn  our  hearts,  where'er  we  rove, 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us! 

When,  round  the  bowl,  of  vanish'd  years 

We  talk,  with  joyous  seeming, 
And  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tears, 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming; 
While  mem'ry  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twin'd  us, 
Oh,  sweet's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us! 

And,  when  in  other  climes  we  meet 

Some  isle  or  vale  enchanting, 
Where  all  looks  flow'ry,  mild  and  sweet, 

And  nought  but  love  is  wanting; 
We  think  how  great  had  been  our  bliss, 

If  Heav'n  had  but  assign'd  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 

With  some  we've  left  behind  us! 

As  travelers  oft  look  back  a';  eve, 

When  eastward  darkly  going, 
To  gaze  upon  the  light  they  leave 

Still  faint  behind  them  glowing — • 


384  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 
To  gloom  hath  near  consign'd  us, 

We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 
Of  joy  that's  left  behind  us. 

THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH  TARA'S  HALLS 
(From  the  same) 

The  harp  that  once,  through  Tara's  Halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls, 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled : — 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er; 
And  hearts,  that  once  beat  high  for  praise, 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more! 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells; 
The  chord,  alone,  that  breaks  at  night, 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells : — 
Thus  freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives! 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON          385 


Oeorge  Oorfcon 

1788-1824 

STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC 
(1815) 

"  O  Lachrymarum  fons,  tenero  sacros 
Ducenlium  ortus  ex  animo  :  quater 
Felix!  in  imo  qui  scatentem 
Pectore  te,  pia  Nympba,  sensit." 

—Gray's  Poemata. 

I. 

There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it  takes 

avvay, 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in  feeling's 

dull  decay; 
'Tis  not  on  youth's  smooth  cheek  the  blush  alone,  which 

fades  so  fast, 
But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  e'er  youth  itself 

be  past. 

II. 

Then  the  few  whose  spirits  float  above  the  wreck  of 

happiness 

Are  driven  o'er  the  shoals  of  guilt  or  ocean  of  excess  : 
The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only  points  in 

vain 
The   shore   to   which   their   shiver'd   sail   shall   never 

stretch  again. 

III. 

Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  soul  like  death  itself 

comes  down; 
It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  dare  not  dream  its 

own; 


886  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  the  fountain  of  our 

tears, 
And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  still,  'tis  where  the  ice 

appears. 


IV. 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and  mirth  dis- 
tract the  breast, 

Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more  their 
former  hope  of  rest; 

'Tis  but  as  ivy  leaves  around  the  ruin'd  turret  wreath, 

All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but  worn  and  gray 
beneath. 


v. 

Oh  could  I  feel  as  I  have  felt, — or  be  what  I  have  been, 
Or  weep  as  I  could  once  have  wept  o'er  many  a  van- 

ish'd  scene: 
As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet,  all  brackish 

though  they  be, 
So  midst  the  wither'd  waste  of  life,  those  tears  would 

flow  to  me. 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY 

.  (From  Hebrew  Melodies,  1815) 

I. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  .cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 

Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes : 
5  Thus- mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 


GEORGE  GOKDON  BYRON  387 

II. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face ; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear,  their  dwelling-place. 

III. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent! 


SONNET  ON  CHILLON 

(Introduction  to  The  Prisoner  of  Cliillon) 
(1816) 

Eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind! 

Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty !  thou  art. 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind; 

And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 

Chillon !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar — for  'twas  trod, 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 

By  Bonnivard ! — May  none  those  marks  efface ! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


388  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE 

(1816) 

CANTO  III. 
III. 

In  my  youth's  summer  I  did  sing  of  One, 
The  wandering  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind; 
Again  I  seize  the  theme,  then  but  begun, 
And  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  rushing  wind 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards :  in  that  Tale  I  find 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up  tears, 
Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind, 
O'er  which  all  heavily  the  journeying  years 
Plod  the  last  sands  of  life, — where  not  a  flower  appears. 

VIII. 

Something  too  much  of  this : — but  now  'tis  past, 

And  the  spell  closes  with  its  silent  seal. 

Long  absent  Harold  re-appears  at  last; 

He  of  the  breast  which  fain  no  more  would  feel, 

Wrung  with  the  wounds  which  kill  not,  but  ne'er 

heal; 

Yet  Time,  who  changes  all,  had  altered  him 
In  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age:  years  steal 
Fire  from  the  mind  as  vigour  from  the  limb ; 
And  life's  enchanted  cup  but  sparkles  near  the  brim. 

IX. 

His  had  been  quaff'd  too  quickly,  and  he  found 
The  dregs  were  wormwood ;  but  he  fill'd  again, 
And  from  a  purer  fount,  on  holier  ground, 
And  deem'd  its  spring  perpetual;  but  in  vain! 
Still  round  him  clung  invisibly  a  chain 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON          389 

Which  gall'd  forever,  fettering  though  unseen, 
And  heavy  though  it  clank'd  not;  worn  with  pain, 
Which  pined  although  it  spoke  not,  and  grew  keen, 
Entering  with  every  step  he   took   through  many  a 
scene. 


XII. 

But  soon  he  knew  himself  the  most  unfit 
Of  men  to  herd  with  Man ;  with  whom  he  held 
Little  in  common ;  untaught  to  submit 
His  thoughts  to  others,  though  his  soul  was  quell'd 
In  youth  by  his  own  thoughts;  still  uncompell'd, 
He  would  not  yield  dominion  of  his  mind 
To  spirits  against  whom  his  own  rebell'd; 
Proud  though  in  desolation ;  which  could  find 
A  life  within  itself,  to  breathe  without  mankind. 

XIII. 

Where  rose  the  mountains,  there  to  him  were  friends ; 
Where  roll'd  the  ocean,  thereon  was  his  home; 
Where  a  blue  sky,  and  glowing  clime,  extends, 
He  had  the  passion  and  the  power  to  roam ; 
The  desert,  forest,  cavern,  breaker's  foam, 
Were  unto  him  companionship;  they  spake 
A  mutual  language,  clearer  than  the  tome 
Of  his  land's  tongue,  which  he  would  oft  forsake 
For  Nature's  pages  glass'd  by  sunbeams  on  the  lake. 

XIV. 

Like  the  Chaldean,  he  could  watch  the  stars, 

Till  he  had  peopled  them  with  beings  bright 

As  their  own  beams ;  and  earth,  and  earth-born  jars, 

And  human  frailties,  were  forgotten  quite: 

Could  he  have  kept  his  spirit  to  that  flight 


390  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

He  had  been  happy;  but  this  clay  will  sink 
Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  the  light 
To  which  it  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the  link 
That  keepe  us  from  yon  heaven  which  woos  us  to  its 
brink. 

XV. 

But  in  Man's  dwellings  he  became  a  thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stern  and  wearisome, 
Droop'd  as  a  wild-born  falcon  with  clipt  wing, 
To  whom  the  boundless  air  alone  were  home : 
Then  came  his  fit  again,  which  to  o'ercome, 
As  eagerly  the  barr'd-up  bird  will  beat 
His  breast  and  beak  against  his  wiry  dome 
Till  the  blood  tinge  his  plumage,  so  the  heat 
Of  his  impeded  soul  would  through  his  bosom  eat- 

XVI. 

Self-exiled  Harold  wanders  forth  again, 

With  naught  of  hope  left,  but  with  less  of  gloom; 

The  very  knowledge  that  he  lived  in  vain, 

That  all  was  over  on  this  side  the  tomb, 

Had  made  Despair  a  smilingness  assume, 

Which,   though   'twere   wild, — as   on   the   plunder'd 

wreck 

When  mariners  would  madly  meet  their  doom 
With  draughts  intemperate  on  the  sinking  deck, — 
Did  yet  inspire  a  cheer,  which  he  forbore  to  check. 


XVIII. 

And  Harold  stands  upon  this  place  of  skulls, 
The  grave  of  France,  the  deadly  Waterloo; 
How  in  an  hour  the  power  which  gave  annuls 
Its  gifts,  transferring  fame  as  fleeting  too! 
In  "  pride  of  place  "  here  last  the  eagle  flew, 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON  391 

Then  tore  vvitli  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain, 
Pierced  by  the  shaft  of  banded  nations  through ; 
Ambition's  life  and  labours  all  were  vain ; 
He   wears  the  shatter'd  links  of    the  world's  broken 
chain. 

XXI. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily  ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell ; 
But  hush!    hark!   a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising 
knell ! 

XXII. 

Did  ye  not  hear  it? — No;  'twas  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street; 
On  with  the  dance!  let  joy  be  unconfined; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet — 
But,  Hark!— that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before! 
Arm!  Arm!  it  is — it  is— the  cannon's  opening  roar! 

XXIII. 

Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem'd  it  near, 


392  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell : 
He  rush'd  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 


XXIV. 

Ah!  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated ;  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise  ? 

XXV. 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star; 
While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or    whispering,    with    white    lips — "  The    foe !     They 
come !  they  come !  " 

XXVI. 

And  wild  and  high  the  "  Cameron's  gathering  "  rose ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes: — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill!     But  with  the  breath  which  fills 


GEORGE   GORDON  BYRON  393 

Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansmen's 

ears! 

XXVII. 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and 
low. 

XXVIII. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  cover'd  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd  and  pent, 
Rider    and    horse, — friend,    foe, — in    one    red    burial 
blent ! 


LXXXV. 

Clear,  placid  Leman!  thy  contrasted  lake, 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwell  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 


394  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

To  waft  me  from  distraction;  once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved, 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so 
moved. 

LXXXVI. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen, 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep;  and  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more; 

LXXXVII. 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill, 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

LXXXVIII. 

Ye  stars !  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven ! 

If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 

Of  men  and  empires, — 'tis  to  be  forgiven, 

That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 

Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON  395 

And  claim  a  kindred  with  you ;  for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 
That  fortune,   fame,  power,  life,  have  named  them- 
selves a  star. 


LXXXIX. 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still — though  not  in  sleep, 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in'thoughts  too  deep: — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still :  From  the  high  host 
Of  stars,  to  the  lull'd  lake  and  mountain-coast, 
All  is  concentr'd  in  a  life  intense, 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 


xc. 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone; 
A  truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth  melt 
And  purifies  from  self:  it  is  a  tone, 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm, 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone, 
Binding  all  things  with  beauty; — 'twould  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to  harm. 


XCI. 

Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of  earth-o'ergazing  mountains,  and  thus  take 
A  fit  and  unwall'd  temple,  there  to  seek 


300  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

The  spirit,  in  whose  honour  shrines  are  weak, 
Uprear'd  of  human  hands.     Come,  and  compare 
Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth  or  Greek, 
With  Nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  and  air, 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  pray'r ! 

XCII. 

The  sky  is  changed ! — and  such  a  change — 

Oh  night, 

And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman!     Far  along, 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder!     Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 
And  Jura  answers,   through  her  misty   shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud! 

XCIII. 

And  this  is  in  the  night : — Most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber!  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth ! 
And  now  again  'tis  black, — and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

XCIV. 

Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way  between 
Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 
That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted! 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON  397 

Though    in    their    souls,    which    thus    each    other 

thwarted : 

Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage 
Which   blighted    their    life's  bloom,  and    then    de- 
parted : 

Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  years  all  winters, — war  within  themselves  to  wage. 

xcv. 

Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft  his  way, 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his  stand: 
For  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play, 
And  fling  their  thunderbolts  from  hand  to  hand, 
Flashing  and  cast  around:  of  all  the  band, 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  fork'd 
His  lightnings, — as  if  he  did  understand, 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  work'd, 
There   the   hot   shaft   should   blast   whatever   therein 
lurk'd.' 

xcvi. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings!  Ye! 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful;  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  oh  tempests!  is  the  goal? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest? 

XCVII. 

Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 
That  which  is  most  within  me, — could  I  wreak 
My   thoughts   upon  expression,   and   thus   throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak, 


398  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek, 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe — into  one  word, 
And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would  speak; 
But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard, 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword. 

CANTO    IV. 

(1818) 

LXXVIII. 

Oh  Rome!  my  country!  city  of  the  soul! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires !  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance?     Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  Ye ! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

LXXIX. 

The  Niobe  of  nations!  there  she  stands, 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe, 
An  empty  urn  within  her  wither'd  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scatter'd  long  ago; 
The  Scipio's  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now; 
The  very  sepulchres^  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers:  dost  thou  flow, 
Old  Tiber!  through  a  marble  wilderness? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress. 

LXXX. 

The   Goth,  the  Christian,   Time,   War,   Flood,   and 

Fire, 

Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hill'd  city's  pride; 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire. 
And  up  the  steep,  barbarian  monarchs  ride, 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON          399 

Where  the  car  climb'd  the  Capitol ;  far  and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site: — 
Chaos  of  ruins!  who  shall  trace  the  void. 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
And  say,  "  here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is  doubly  night  ? 

LXXXI. 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 
Night's  daughter,  Ignorance,  hath  wrapt  and  wrap 
All  round  us;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err: 
The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their  map, 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections;  now  we  clap 
Our  hands,  and  cry  "  Eureka !  "  it  is  clear — 
Where  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas !  the  lofty  city !  and  alas ! 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs !  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away! 
Alas,  for  Tully's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay, 
And  Livy's  pictured  page! — but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection;  all  beside — decay. 
Alas  for  earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  was 
free! 


CLXX7. 

But  I  forget. — My  Pilgrim's  shrine  is  won, 
And  he  and  I  must  part, — so  let  it  be, — 
His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done; 
Yet  once  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea ; 


400  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

The  midland  ocean  breaks  on  him  and  me, 
And  from  the  Alban  Mount  we  now  behold 
Our  friend  of  youth,  that  ocean,  which  when  we 
Beheld  it  last  by  Calpe's  rock  unfold 
Those  waves,  we  follow'd  on  till  the  dark  Euxine  roll'd 

CLXXVI. 

Upon  the  blue  Symplegades :  long  years — 
Long,  though  not  very  many,  since  have  done 
Their  work  on  both;  some  suffering  and  some  tears 
Have  left  us  nearly  where  we  had  begun : 
Yet  not  in  vain  our  mortal  race  hath  run, 
We  have  had  our  reward — and  it  is  here ; 
That  we  can  yet  feel  gladden'd  by  the  sun, 
And  reap  from  earth,  sea,  joy  almost  as  dear 
As  if  there  were  no  man  to  trouble  what  is  clear. 

CLXXVII. 

Oh !  that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling-place, 
With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  minister, 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race, 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her! 
Ye  Elements ! — in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted — Can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  being?    Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be  our  lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 


GEOKGE  GORDON  BYRON          401 

To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

CLXX1X. 

Koll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean — roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore ; — upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown. 

CLXXX. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths, — thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him, — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth: — there  let  him  lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 


402  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

CLXXXII. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts: — not  so  thou, 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

CLXXXIII. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  foim 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;  in  all  time 
Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving; — boundless,  endless,  and  sublime — 
The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean!  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward :  from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do  here. 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON  403 

DON  JUAN 

(1821) 

CANTO  m. 

xc. 

And  glory  long  has  made  the  sages  smile; 

"Tis  something,  nothing,  words,  illusion,  wind — 
Depending  more  upon  the  historian's  style 

Than  on  the  name  a  person  leaves  behind: 
Troy  owes  to  Homer  what  whist  owes  to  Hoyle: 

The  present  century  was  growing  blind 
To  the  great  Marlborough's  skill  in  giving  knocks 
Until  his  late  Life  by  Archdeacon  Coxe. 

xci. 

Milton's  the  prince  of  poets — so  we  say; 

A  little  heavy,  but  no  less  divine: 
An  independent  being  in  his  day — 

Learn'd,  pious,  temperate  in  love  and  wine; 
But  his  life  falling  into  Johnson's  way, 

We're  told  this  great  high-priest  of  all  the  Nine 
Was  whipt  at  college — a  harsh  sire — odd  spouse, 
For  the  first  Mrs.  Milton  left  his  house. 

XCII. 

All  these  are,  certes,  entertaining  facts, 

Like     Shakespeare's    ste'aling    deer,    Lord     Bacon's 

bribes ; 
Like  Titus'  youth,  and  Caesar's  earliest  acts; 

Like  Burns  (whom  Dr.  Currie  well  describes) 
Like  Cromwell's  pranks; — but  although  truth  exacts 

These  amiable  descriptions  from  the  scribes, 
As  most  essential  to  their  hero's  story. 
They  do  not  much  contribute  to  his  glory. 


404  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

XCIII. 

All  are  not  moralists,  like  Southey,  when 
He  prated  to  the  world  of  "  Pantisocracy ;  " 

Or  Wordsworth  unexcised,  unhir'd,  who  then 
Season'd  his  pedlar  poems  with  democracy; 

Or  Coleridge,  long  before  his  flighty  pen 
Let  to  the  Morning  Post  its  aristocracy; 

When  he  and  Southey,  following  the  same  path, 

Espoused  two  partners  (milliners  of  Bath). 

XCIV. 

Such  names  at  present  cut  a  convict  figure, 
The  very  Botany  Bay  in  moral  geography; 

Their  loyal  treason,  renegado  vigour, 
Are  good  manure  for  their  more  bare  biography. 

Wordsworth's  last  quarto,  by  the  way,  is  bigger 

Than  any  since  the  birthday  of  typography;  750 

A  clumsy,  frowzy  poem,  call'd  the  "  Excursion  " 

Writ  in  a  mariner  which  is  my  aversion. 

xcv. 

He  there  builds  up  a  formidable  dyke 

Between  his  own  and  others'  intellect; 
But  Wordsworth's  poem,  and  his  followers,  like 

Joanna  Southcote's  Shiloh,  and  her  sect, 
Are  things  which  in  this  century  don't  strike 

The  public  mind, — so  few  are  the  elect; 
And  the  new  births  of  both  their  stale  virginities 
Have  proved  but  dropsies  taken  for  divinities. 


CI. 

T'  our  tale. — The  feast  was  over,  the  slaves  gone, 
The  dwarfs  and  dancing  girls  had  all  retir'd; 

The  Arab  lore  and  poet's  song  were  done, 
And  every  sound  of  revelry  expir'd; 


GEOKGE  GORDON  BYRON          405 

The  lady  and  her  lover,  left  alone, 

The  rosy  flood  of  twilight  sky  admir'd; — 
Ave  Maria !  o'er  the  earth  and  sea, 
That  heavenliest  hour  of  Heaven  is  worthiest  theel 

on. 

Ave  Maria!  blessed  be  the  hour! 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I  so  oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 

Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft, 
While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower, 

Or  the  faint  dying  day-hymn  stole  aloft, 

And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air, 
And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seem  stirr'd  with  prayer. 


CV. 

Sweet  hour  of  twilight! — in  the  solitude 
Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 

Which  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood, 
Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flow'd  o'er, 

To  where  the  last  Csesarean  fortress  stood, 
Evergreen  forest!  which  Boccaccio's  lore 

And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me, 

How  have  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thee! 

CVI. 

The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 

Making  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song, 

Were  the  sole  echoes,  save  my  steed's  and  mine, 
And  vesper-bell's  that  rose  the  boughs  along; 

The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line, 

His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the  fair  throng 

Which  learn'd  from  this  example  not  to  fly 

From  a  true  lover,  shadow'd  my  mind's  eye. 


406  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

CVII. 

Oh,  Hesperus!  thou  bringest  all  good  things — 
Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer, 

To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding  wings, 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlabourd  steer; 

Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone  clings, 
Whate'er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear, 

Are  gather'd  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest ; 

Thou  bring'st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's  breast. 

CVIII. 

Soft  hour!  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the  heart 
Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 

When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are  torn  apart ; 
Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way 

As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 
Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay; 

Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorns? 

Ah!  surely  nothing  dies  but  something  mourns! 


1792-1822 

ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 
(1819) 

I. 

O  wild   West   Wind,   thou  breath   of   Autumn's 

being, 

Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
5  Pestilence-stricken  multitudes:  O  thou, 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  407 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill : 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  every  where; 
Destroyer  and  preserver ;  hear,  oh,  hear  1 

n. 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  com- 
motion, 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and 
Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning :  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Mienad,  even  from  the  dim,  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height, 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst:  oh,  hear! 

III. 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreama 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 


408  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss,  and  flowers 

So  sweet  the  sense  faints  picturing  them!     Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves:  oh,  hear  I 

IV. 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable!     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skyey  speed 
Scarce    seemed    a    vision;    I    would    ne'er   have 
striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh,  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life !     I  bleed ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee :  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  409 


V. 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.    Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit!     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy!     O  wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind? 

TO  A  SKYLARK 

(1820) 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  Heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And   singing  still  dost  soar,   and  soaring  ever 
singest. 


410  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  day-light 

Thou   art    unseen, — but   yet    I    hear   thy    shrill 
delight, 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear 
Until  we  hardly  see — we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  Night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 

The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  Heaven  is, 
overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  Poet  hidden 

In  .the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
40  To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not: 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  411 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 

With  music  sweet  as  love, — which  overflows  her 
bower : 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it  from 
the  view: 

Like  a  rose  embowered 
In  its  own  green  leaves, 

By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  those  heavy- 
winged  thieves: 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 

Joyous  and  clear  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  sur- 
pass. 

Teach  us,  Sprite  or  Bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine; 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  Hymenseal, 
Or  triumphal  chaunt, 


412  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Matched  with  thine,  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt, 

A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden 
want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields  or  waves  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of 
pain? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be; 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee; 
Thou  lovest — but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream — 

Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal 
stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 


PEKCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  413 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 

Thy   skill   to   poet   were,   thou   scorner   of   the 
ground ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 

The  world  should  listen  then — as  I  am  listening 
now. 

THE  CLOUD 

(1820) 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  by  fits; 


414  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead; 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings. 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea 
beneath, 

Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  Moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  415 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl; 
The  volcanos  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and 
swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, — 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch,  through  which  I  march, 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my 
chair, 

Is  the  million-colored  bow; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex 
gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the 
tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


416  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

ADONAIS 
(1821) 


I  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead! 
Oh,  weep  for  Adonais!  though  our  tears 
Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a  head ! 
And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all  years 
To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure  compeers, 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow ;  Say :  "  With 

me 

Died  Adonais;  till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity ! " 

II. 

Where  wert  thou,  mighty  Mother,  when  he  lay, 
When    thy    Son    lay,    pierced    by    the     shaft 

which  flies 

In  darkness?  where  was  lorn  Urania 
When  Adonais  died?    With  veiled  eyes, 
'Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 
She    sate,    while    one,    with    soft    enamoured 

breath, 

Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies, 
With  which,  like  flowers  that  mock  the  corse 

beneath, 

He  had   adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk  of 
death. 

in. 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead! 

Wake,  melancholy  Mother,  wake  and  weep! 

Yet  wherefore?     Quench  within  their  burning 

bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  417 

Like  his  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep; 
For  he  is  gone  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 
Descend.    Oh,   dream   not   that   the   amorous 

Deep 

Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air; 
Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs  at  our 
despair. 

IV. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again! 
Lament  anew,  Urania! — He  died, 
Who  was  the  sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 
Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  country's  pride 
The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide 
Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed  rite 
Of  lust  and  blood;  he  went,  unterrified, 
Into  the  gulf  of  death;  but  his  clear  Sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er  earth,  the  third  among  the  sons  of 
light. 

V. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew! 
Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to  climb; 
And  happier  they  their  happiness  who  knew, 
Whose  tapers  yet  burn  through  that  night  of 

time 

In  which  suns  perished;  others  more  sublime, 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  God, 
Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent  prime; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny  road, 
Which  leads,  through  toil  and  hate,  to  Fame's 
serene  abode. 

VI. 

But    now,    thy    youngest,    dearest    one    has 

perished, 

The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who  grew. 
Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden  cherished 
And  fed  with  true-love  tears  instead  of  dew ; 


418  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew! 
Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  the  last, 
The  bloom,  whose  petals,  nipt  before  they  blew, 
Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste; 
The  broken  lily  lies — the  storm  is  overpast. 

VII. 

To  that  high  Capital,  where  kingly  Death 
Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and  decay, 
He  came;   and  bought,  with  price  of  purest 

breath, 

A  grave  among  the  eternal. — Come  away ! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof !  while  still 
He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay; 
Awake  him  not!  surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 

VIII. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more! 
Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace 
The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the  door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace  . 

His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling-place ; 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 
Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to  deface 
So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness  and  the  law 
Of  change,  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal  curtain 
draw. 

IX. 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais ! — The  quick  Dreams, 
The  passion-winged  ministers  of  thought, 
Who    were    his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living 

streams 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught 


PERCY  BYS8HE  SHELLEY  419 

The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not, — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to  brain, 
But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprung;  and 

mourn  their  lot 
Round  the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their  sweet 

pain, 

They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find  a  home 
again. 


And  one  with  trembling  hands  clasps  his  cold 

head, 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings,  and 

cries, 

"  Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not  dead ; 
See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes, 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there  lies 
A   tear   some   Dream   has   loosened   from   his 

brain." 

Lost  Angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise! 
She  knew  not  'twas  her  own;  as  with  no  stain 
She  faded,  like  a  cloud    which  had  outwept  .its 
rain. 


XI. 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 
"Washed  his  light  limbs  as  if  embalming  them; 
Another  dipt  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem, 
Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  begem; 
Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more  weak; 
And  dull  the  barbed  fire  against  his  frozen  cheek, 


420  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

XII. 

Another  Splendour  on  his  mouth  alit, 

That  mouth,  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw  the 

breath 
Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the  guarded 

wit, 

And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 
With    lightning    and  with   music:    the    damp 

death 

Quenched  its  caress  upon  his  icy  lips; 
And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonlight  vapour,  which  the  cold  night  clips, 
It  flushed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and  past  to  its 

eclipse. 

XIII. 

And  others  came  .  .  .  Desires  and  Adorations, 
Winged  Persuasions  and  veiled  Destinies, 
Splendours,  and  Glooms,  and  glimmering  In- 
carnations 

Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Fantasies; 
And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 
And   Pleasure,   blind   with   tears,   led   by   the 

gleam 

Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes, 
Came  in  slow  pomp; — the  moving  pomp  might 

seem 
Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal  stream. 

XIV. 

All  he  had  loved,  and  molded  into  thought, 
From  shape,  and  hue,  and  odour,  and  sweet 

sound, 

Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought 
Her  eastern  watch  tower,   and   her   hair  un- 
bound, 


PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY  421 

Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn  the 

ground, 

Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day; 
Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned, 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay, 
And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing  in  their 

dismay. 


XV. 


Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  mountains, 
And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered  lay, 
And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  fountains, 
Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young  green 

spray, 

Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing  day; 
Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more  dear 
Than  those  for  whose  disdain  she  pined  away 
Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds: — a  drear 
Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the  woodmen 

hear. 

XVI. 

Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and  she 

threw  down 

Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn  were, 
Or    they    dead    leaves;    since    her    delight    is 

flown, 
For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the  sullen 

year? 

To  Phrebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear, 
Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou,  Adonais;  wan  they  stand  and  sere 
Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their  youth, 
With  dew  all  turned  to  tears;  odour,  to  sighing 

ruth. 


422  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

XVII. 

Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale, 
Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious  pain ; 
Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 
Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's  domain 
Her  mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth  com- 
plain, 

Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty  nest, 
As  Albion  wails  for  thee:  the  curse  of  Cain 
Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  innocent 

breast, 

And  scared  the  angel  soul  that  was  its  earthly 
guest ! 

XVIII. 

Ah  woe  is  me!     Winter  is  come  and  gone, 
But  grief  returns  with  ihe  revolving  year; 
The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous  tone; 
The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows  reappear; 
Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead  Seasons' 

bier; 

The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake, 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and  brere ; 
And  the  green  lizard  and  the  golden  snake, 
unimprisoned  flames,  out  of  their  trance 

awake. 

XIX. 

Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and  hill 

and  Ocean, 
A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart  has 

burst, 

As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  motion, 
From  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when 

first 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  423 

God  dawned  on  Chaos;  in  its  stream  immersed 
The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer  light; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst, 
Diffuse  themselves,  and  spend  in  love's  delight, 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed  might. 

XX. 

The    leprous    corpse    touched    by    this    spirit 

tender, 

Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath ; 
Like  incarnations  of  the  stars,  when  splendour 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine  death 
And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes  beneath. 
Nought  we  know  dies.     Shall  that  alone  which 

knows 

Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 
By    sightless    lightning? — the    intense    atom 

glows 
A  moment,    then   is   quenched   in   a  most  cold 

repose. 

XXI. 

Alas !  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 
And  grief  itself  be  mortal !     Woe  is  me ! 
Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we?  of  what  scene 
The  actors  or  spectators?    Great  and  mean 
Meet  massed  in  death,  who  lends  what  life  must 

borrow. 

As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are  green, 
Evening   must   usher   night,    night   urge   the 

morrow, 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year  wake 

year  to  sorrow. 


424  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

XXII. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more ! 

"  Wake  thou,"  cried  Misery,  "  childless  Mother, 

rise 
Out  of  thy  sleep,  and   slake,   in   thy   heart's 

core, 
A  wound  more  fierce  than  his  with  tears  and 

sighs." 
And   all   the   Dreams   that   watched   Urania's 

eyes, 

And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's  song 
Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried,  "  Arise !  " 
Swift   as   a    Thought   by   the   snake   Memory 

stung, 
From  her  ambrosial  rest  the  fading  Splendour 

sprung. 

XXIII. 

She  rose  like  an  autumnal  night,  that  springs 
Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and  drear 
The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal  wings, 
Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 
Had    left    the    Earth    a    corpse, — sorrow    and 

fear 

So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt  Urania; 
So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmosphere 
Of  stormy  mist ;  so  swept  her  on  her  way 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais  lay. 

XXIV. 

Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped, 

Through  camps  and  cities  rough  with  stone, 

and  steel, 

And  human  hearts  which,  to  her  airy  tread 
Yiplding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  425 

Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they  fell; 
And  barbed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more  sharp 

than  they, 

Rent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could  repel, 
Whose  sacred  blood,  like  the  young  tears  of 

May, 
Paved    with    eternal    flowers    that    undeserving 

way. 

XXV. 

In  the  death-chamber  for  a  moment  Death, 
Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living  Might, 
Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Revisited  those  lips,  and  life's  pale  light 
Flashed  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her  dear 

delight. 

"  Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  comfortless, 
As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless  night ! 
Leave  me  not !  "  cried  Urania ;  her  distress 
Roused  Death;  Death  rose  and  smiled,  and  met 

her  vain  caress. 


XXVI. 

"  Stay  yet  awhile !  speak  to  me  once  again ; 
Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live ; 
And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning  brain 
That  word,  that  kiss,  shall  all  thoughts  else 

survive, 

With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive, 
Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 
Of  thee,  my  Adonais !  I  would  give 
All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art ! 
But  I  am  chained  to  Time,  and  cannot  thence 

depart ! 


426  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

XXVII. 

"  O  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert, 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of  men 
Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though  mighty 

heart 

Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den? 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh,  where  was  then 
Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear  \ 
Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when 
Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent  sphere, 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from  thee 

like  deer. 

XXVIII. 

"  The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue ; 
The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead; 
The  vultures,  to  the  conqueror's  banner  true, 
Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed, 
And  whose  wings  rain  contagion; — how  they 

fled, 

When,  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow 
The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 
And  smiled! — The  spoilers  tempt  no  second 

blow, 

They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn  them  ly- 
ing low. 

XXIX. 

"  The    sun    comes    forth,    and    many    reptiles 

spawn ; 

He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn, 
And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again; 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  427 

So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men : 

A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 

Making  earth  bare   and   veiling  heaven,   and 

when 
It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or  shared 

its  light 
Leave   to   its   kindred  lamps   the   spirit's   awful 

night." 


XXX. 

Thus  ceased  she:  and  the  mountain  shepherds 

came, 

Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles  rent; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent, 
An  early  but  enduring  monument, 
Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his  song 
In  sorrow;  from  her  wilds  lerne  sent 
The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong, 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music  from  his 

tongue. 


XXXI. 

Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail  Form, 
A  phantom  among  men;  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell;  he,  as  I  guess, 
Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness, 
Acteon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness, 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged  way, 
Pursued,  like   raging  hounds,  their  father   and 
their  prey. 


428  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

XXXII. 

A  pardlike  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift — 
A  Love  in  desolation  masked; — a  Power 
Girt  round  with  weakness ; — it  can  scarce  uplift 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow; — even  whilst  we  speak 
Is  it  not  broken?     On  the  withering  flower 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly :  on  a  cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart 
may  break. 

XXXIII. 

His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  overblown, 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and  blue; 
And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress  cone, 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy  tresses  grew 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday  dew, 
Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it;  of  that 

crew 

He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart; 
A  herd-abandoned  deer  struck  by  the  hunter's 

dart. 

XXXIV. 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled   through   their  tears;   well   knew  that 

gentle  band 

Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own, 
As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land 
He  sung  new  sorrow;  sad  Urania  scanned 
The  Stranger's  mien,  and   murmured :   "  Who 

art  thou?" 
He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  429 

Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined  brow, 
Which  was  like  Cain's  or  Christ's — oh!  that  it 
should  be  so! 


XXXV. 

What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  dead? 

Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle  thrown? 

What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  death- 
bed, 

In  mockery  of  monumental  stone, 

The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan? 

If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise, 

Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honoured  the  departed 
one; 

Let  me  not  vex  with  inharmonious  sighs 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice. 

XXXVI. 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison — oh, 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could  crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  woe? 
The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself  disown; 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate  and  wrong, 
But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone, 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song, 
Whose  master's  hand  is  cold,  whose  silver  lyre 
unstrung. 

XXXVII. 

Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame! 
Live!  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me, 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be ! 


480        '  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow; 
Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling  to  thce; 
Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow, 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt — as 
now. 


XXXVIII. 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrion  kites  that  scream  below; 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now. 
Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 
Through  time  and  change,  unquenchably  the 

same, 
Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid  hearth 

of  shame. 


XXXIX. 

Peace,   peace!   he   is   not   dead,   he   doth   not 

sleep — 

He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life — 
'Tis  we,  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 
And  in  mad  trance,   strike  with  our   spirit's 

knife 

Invulnerable  nothings.     We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 
And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within  our  liv- 
ing clay. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  431 

XL. 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night; 
Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  in  vain ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn, 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 

XLI. 

He  lives,  he  wakes — 'tis  Death  is  dead,  not  he; 
Mourn  not  for  Adonais. — Thou  young  Dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendour,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone ; 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan! 
Cease,  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and  thou 

Air, 
Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst 

thrown 

O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare 
Even  to    the  joyous   stars   which   smile   on   its 

despair ! 

XLII. 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature:  there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never  wearied 

love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 


432  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

XLIII. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely :  he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compel- 
ling there, 

All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear ; 
Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its 

flight 

To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear, 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  Heaven's 

light. 

XLIV. 

The  splendours  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not ; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb, 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The    brightness    it    may    veil.     When    lofty 

thought 

Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy 

air. 

XLV. 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 

Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond  mortal 

thought, 

Far  in  the  Unapparent.     Chatterton 
Rose  pale, — his  solemn  agony  had  not 
Yet  faded  from  him;  Sidney,  as  he  fought 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved, 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  433 

Arose;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved; 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a   thing  re- 
proved. 

XLVI. 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on  Earth  are 

dark, 

But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
"  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  cry ; 
"  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent  alone  amid  an  Heaven  of  song. 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper  of  our 
throng !  " 

XL  VII. 

Who  mourns  for  Adonais?  oh,  come  forth, 
Fond  wretch !  and  know  thyself  and  him  aright. 
Clasp   with   thy   panting   soul   the   pendulous 

Earth; 

As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference;  then  shrink 
Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light  lest  it  make  thee  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to 

the  brink. 

XLVIII. 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre 
Oh,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy:  'tis  naught 
That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought; 


434  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

For  such  as  he  can  lend, — they  borrow  not 
Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  theL 

prey; 

And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's  decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 


XLIX. 

Go  thou  to  Rome, — at  once  the  Paradise, 

The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness ; 

And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  mountains 

rise, 

And  flowering  weeds,  and  fragrant  copses  dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness, 
Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access, 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is 

spread. 


And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull 

Time 

Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble ;  and  beneath 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of 

death, 

Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  extinguished 
breath. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  435 

LI. 

Here  pause:  these  graves  are  all  too  young  as 

yet 

To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each;  and  if  the  seal  is  set, 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind, 
Break  it  not  thou!  too  surely  shalt  thou  find 
Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest  home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.    From  the  world's   bitter 

wind 

Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become  ? 


LII. 


The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass; 
Heaven's  light  forever  shines,  Earth's  shadows 

fly; 

Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost 

seek! 

Follow  where  all  is  fled ! — Rome's  azure  sky, 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to 

speak. 

LIII. 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  my 

Heart? 

Thy  hopes  are  gone  before ;  from  all  things  here 
They  have  departed;  thou  shouldst  now  depart  I 
A  light  is  past  from  the  revolving  year, 


436  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

And  man,  and  woman ;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles, — the  low  wind  whispers 

near; 

'Tis  Adonais  calls!  oh,  hasten  thither, 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can  join 

together. 

LIV. 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe, 
That   Beauty   in  which   all  things  work   and 

move, 

That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst,  now  beams  on  me, 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

LV. 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in 

song 

Descends  on  me;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling 

throng 

Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given ; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar; 
Whilst,   burning  through   the   inmost  veil  of 

Heaven, 

The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  437 


TIME 
(1821) 

Unfathomable  Sea !  whose  waves  are  years, 

Ocean  of  Time,  whose  waters  of  deep  woe 
Are  brackish  with  the  salt  of  human  tears ! 

Thou  shoreless  flood,  which  in  thy  ebb  and  flow 
Claspest  the  limits  of  mortality, 

And  sick  of  prey,  yet  howling  on  for  more, 
Vomitest  thy  wrecks  on  its  inhospitable  shore; 

Treacherous  in  calm,  and  terrible  in  storm, 
Who  shall  put  forth  on  thee, 
Unfathomable  Sea? 

TO 

(1821) 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory; 
Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken; 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed; 
And  so  thy  thoiights,  when  thou  are  gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

TO  NIGHT 

(1821) 

I. 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight! 


438  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

II. 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 

Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day; 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out ; 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 

Come,  long-sought! 

in. 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee; 

When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. 

IV. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

Wouldst  thou  me? 

Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee, 
Shall  I  nestle  at  thy  side? 
Would'st  thou  me? — and  I  replied, 

No,  not  thee! 

V. 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon ; 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night, — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon ! 


PERCY  BY8SHE  SHELLEY  439 

A  LAMENT 
(1821) 

I. 

O  world!  0  life!  O  time! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb, 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before; 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime? 

No  more — oh,  never  more! 

II. 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight; 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar, 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 

No  more — oh,  never  more! 

TO  

(1821) 

I. 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it ; 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

II. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not, — 


440  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 
Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 

The  devotion  to  something  afar 
From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow? 


1795-1821 

THE  EVE  OF  ST.   AGNES 

(1820) 

I. 

St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah,  hitter  chill  it  was ! 

The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold; 

The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen 

grass, 

And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold: 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers,  while  he 

told 

His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd   taking   flight   for   heaven,   without   a 

death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer 

he  saith. 

II. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees: 
The   sculptur'd   dead,   on   each   side,   seem   to 

freeze, 

Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails: 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 


JOHN  KEATS  441 

He  passeth  by;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and 
mails. 

III. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And   scarce   three    steps,   ere   Music's    golden 

tongue 

Flatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor; 
But  no — already  had  his  deathbell  rung; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung ; 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  eve: 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to 

grieve. 

IV. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanc'd,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide: 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests: 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-ey'd, 
Star'd,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise 
on  their  breasts. 

v. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  faerily 
The  brain,  newstuff'd  in  youth,  with  triumphs 
gay 


442  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times 
declare. 

VI. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey'd  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they 
desire. 

VII. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline: 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard :  her  maiden  eyes  divine 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 
And  back  retir'd ;  not  cool'd  by  high  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  otherwhere : 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the 
year. 

VIII. 

She  danc'd  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious   her   lips,    her   breathing    quick    and 

short : 

The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand:  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng'd  resort 


JOHN  KEATS  443 

Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  faery  fancy;  all  amort, 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 

IX. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 

She     linger'd     still.    Meantime,     across     the 

moors, 

Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  im- 
plores 

All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in  sooth  such 
things  have  been. 

x. 

He  ventures  in :  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  .a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  Love's  f ev'rous  citadel : 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage:  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul 

XI. 

Ah,  happy  chance!  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 


444  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland : 
He  startled  her;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saying,  "Mercy,  Porphyro!  hie  thee  from  this 

place ; 

"  They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood- 
thirsty race ! 

XII. 

"  Get  hence !  get  hence !  there's  dwarfish  Hilde- 

brand ; 

"  He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
"He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and 

land : 
"  Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a 

whit 

"  More  tame  for  his  grey  hairs — Alas  me !  flit  1 
"  Flit  like  a  ghost  away." — "  Ah,  Gossip  dear, 
"  We're  safe  enough ;  here  in  this  armchair  sit, 
"And    tell    me    how"—    "Good    Saints    not 

here,  not  here: 
"  Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy 

bier." 

XIII. 

He  follow'd  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume, 
And  as  she  mutter'd  "  Well-a-well-a-day !  " 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  lattic'd,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
"  Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
"  When     they     St.     Agnes'     wool     are  weaving 
piously." 


JOHN  KEATS  445 

XIV. 

"St.  Agnes!  Ah!  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve— 
"  Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days : 
"  Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
"  And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
"  To  venture  so :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
"  To  see  thee,  Porphyro ! — St.  Agnes'  Eve ! 
"  God's  help !  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer  plays 
"  This  very  night :  good  angels  her  deceive ! 
"  But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  mickle  time  to 
grieve." 

XV. 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  clos'd  a  wondrous  riddle-book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments 

cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

XVI. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 

Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 

Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 

A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start: 

"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art : 

"  Sweet   lady,   let   her   pray,    and   sleep,    and 

dream 

"  Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
"From   wicked    men   like    thee.    Go,    go! — I 

deem 
"Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou 

didst  seem." 


446  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

XVII. 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro :  "  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
"  When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last 

prayer, 

"  If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
"  Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face; 
"  Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
"  Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
"  Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  f oemen's  ears, 
"And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd 

than  wolves  and  bears." 

XVIII. 

"  Ah !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 

"  A    poor,    weak,    palsy-stricken,    churchyard 
thing, 

"  Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 

"  Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  even- 
ing, 

"Were   never   miss'd." — Thus    plaining,    doth 
she  bring 

A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro ; 

So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 

That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 

XIX. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespy'd, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 
While  legion'd  fa'ries  pac'd  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-ey'd. 


JOHN  KEATS  447 

Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous 
debt. 

XX. 

"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame : 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
"  Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tambour 

frame 

"  Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see :  no  time  to  spare, 
"  For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
"  On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
"  Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience ;  kneel  in 

prayer 

"  The  while :  Ah !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
"  Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the 

dead." 

XXI. 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd; 
The  dame  return'd  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The    maiden's    chamber,    silken,    hush'd,    and 

chaste ; 

Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleas'd  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her 
brain. 

XXII. 

Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware? 


448  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd 
and  fled. 

XXIII. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died: 
She  clos'd  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide: 
No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side ; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her 
dell. 

XXIV. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot- 
grass, 

And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A    shielded    scutcheon    blush'd    with    blood    of 
queens  and  kings. 

XXV. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And   threw   warm   gules    on    Madeline's    fair 

breast, 

As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 


JOHN  KEATS  449 

And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint: 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven : — Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal 
taint. 

XXVI. 

Anon  his  heart  revives :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees: 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is 
fled. 

XXVII. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day; 
Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims 

pray; 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

XXVIII. 

Stol'n  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gaz'd  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness; 


450  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless 
And  breath'd   himself:   then   from  the   closet 

crept, 

Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo ! — how 

fast  she  slept. 

XXIX. 

Then  by  the  bed-side  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet : — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone : — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is 
gone. 

XXX. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  forth  from  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of    candied    apple,    quince,    and    plum,    and 

gourd ; 

With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar'd  Lebanon. 

XXXI. 

These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver :  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 


JOHN  KEATS  451 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfumed  light — 
"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake ! 
"  Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite : 
"  Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 
"  Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth 
ache." 

XXXII. 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By    the    dusk    curtains: — 'twas    a    midnight 

charm 

Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream: 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies: 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes; 
So  mus'd  awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and, — in    chords    that    tender- 

est  be, 

He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In    Provence    call'd,    "  La    belle    dame    sans 

mercy : " 

Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody; — 
Wherewith  disturb'd,  she  utter'd  a  soft  moan: 
He  ceas'd — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone: 
Upon    his    knees    he    sank,    pale    as    smooth- 

sculptured-stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep: 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep; 


452  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 

And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a 

sigh, 

While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dream- 

ingly. 

XXXV. 

"  Ah,  Porphyro !  "  said  she,  "  but  even  now 
"  Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
"  Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 
"And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear; 
"  How  chang'd  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and 

drear ! 

"  Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
"  Those    looks    immortal,    those    complainings 

dear! 

"  Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
"For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where 

to  go." 

XXXVI. 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion'd  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blended  its  odour  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet :  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes ;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath 
set. 

XXXVII. 

'Tis  dark :  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet : 
"  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline !  " 
'Tis  dark :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
"  No  dream,  alas !  alas !  and  woe  is  mine ! 


JOHN  KEATS  453 

"Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to   fade   and 

pine. — 

"  Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  ? 
"I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
"  Though  thou  f  orsakest  a  deceived  thing ; — 
"A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned 

wing." 

XXXVIII. 

"  My  Madeline !  sweet  dreamer !  lovely  bride ! 

"  Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 

"  Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shap'd  and  vermeil 

dy'd? 

"  Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
"  After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
"A  famish'd  pilgrim, — sav'd  by  miracle. 
"  Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
"  Saving  of  thy  sweet  self ;  if  thou  think'st  well 
"  To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

XXXIX. 

"Hark!  'tis  an  elfin-storm  from  faery  land, 
"  Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed : 
"  Arise — arise !  the  morning  is  at  hand ; — 
"  The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed : — 
"  Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
"  There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
" Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead: 
"  Awake !  arise !  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 
"For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for 
thee." 

XL. 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears — 
Down  the   wide   stairs   a   darkling  way   they 
found. — 


454  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-droop'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each 

door; 
The    arras    rich    with    horseman,    hawk,    and 

hound, 

Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 

XLI. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ; 
Like  phantoms,  to  the  iron  porch,  they  glide; 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side: 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his 

hide, 

But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide: — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones; — 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon   its   hinges 

groans. 

XLII. 

And  they  are  gone:  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
And   all   his   warrior-guests,   with   shade   and 

form 

Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmar'd.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept   amongst   his   ashes 

cold. 


JOHN  KEATS  455 

ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 
(1819) 

I. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 

Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk: 

'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 


II. 

O,  for  a  draught  of  vintage !  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 
Dance,  and  Provengal  song,  and  sunburnt 

mirth ! 

O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth; 

That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim : 

III. 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 

The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan ; 


456  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and 

dies; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 

And  leaden-ey'd  despairs, 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 


Away !  away !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards: 
Already  with  thee !  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 

v. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild; 

White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine; 
Fast  fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves, 

VI. 

Darkling  I  listen ;  and,  for  many  .a  time 
I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 

Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 
To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath; 


JOHN  KEATS  457 

Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy ! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain— 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

VII. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 
Perhaps  the  self -same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for 

home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn; 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

VIII. 

Forlorn !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 
Adieu !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  fam'd  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu!  adieu!  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 

Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 

In  the  next  valley -glades : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music : — Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


458  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 
(Written  1819) 

I. 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf-fring'd  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these?    What  maidens 

loth? 
What  mad  pursuit?    What  struggle  to  escape? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?    What  wild  ecstasy  ? 

II. 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare; 

Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though    winning    near    the    goal — yet,    do    not 

grieve ; 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair! 

III. 

Ah!  happy,  happy  boughs!  that  cannot  shed 
Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 

And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 
For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new; 


JOHN  KEATS  459 

More  happy  love !  more  happy,  happy  love ! 
For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy 'd, 

For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 
That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

IV. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

v. 

O  Attic  shape !    Fair  attitude !  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 

Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity:  Cold  Pastoral! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know- 


460  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

TO  AUTUMN 

(Written  1819  ?) 

I. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 
With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch- 
eaves  run; 

To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core; 
To  swell  the  gourd,   and  plump   the   hazel 

shells 

With  a  sweet  kernel;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 
For  Summer  has  o'er-brimm'd  their  clammy 
cells. 


II. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind; 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drows'd  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy 

hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all   its  twined 

flowers : 

And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook; 
Or  by  a  cyder-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou   watchest   the   last   oozings   hours   by 
hours. 


JOHN  KEATS  461 

III. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?    Ay,  where  are 

they? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies ; 
And    full-grown    lambs    loud    bleat    from    hilly 

bourn ; 

Hedge-crickets  sing;  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden  croft; 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS    MERCI 

(1820) 

I. 

Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering; 
The  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 

II. 

Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight, 

So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 
The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 

And  the  harvest's  done. 

in. 

I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow, 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew; 
And  on  thy  cheek  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too. 


462  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

IV. 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 
Full  beautiful,  a  faery's  child; 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

V. 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long ; 

For  sideways  would  she  lean  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 

VI. 

I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone; 

She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 

VII. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew ; 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said, 
I  love  thee  true. 

VIII. 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 
And  there  she  gaz'd  and  sighed  deep; 

And  there  I  shut  her  wild  sad  eyes — 
So  kissed  to  sleep. 

IX. 

And  there  we  slumber'd  on  the  moss, 
And  there  I  dream 'd,  ah  woe  betide, 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd, 
On  the  cold  hill  side. 


JOHN  KEATS  463 

X. 

I  saw  pale  kings,  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all; 

Who  cry'd — "  La  belle  Dame  sans  merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall!" 

XI. 

I  saw  their  starv'd  lips  in  the  gloom, 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 

And  I  awoke,  and  found  me  here 
On  the  cold  hill  side. 

XII. 

And  this  is  why  1  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake 

And  no  birds  sing. 


SONNETS 

ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER 
(Written  1816) 

XI. 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold, 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  rul'd  as  his  demesne; 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold: 


464  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken; 

Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  star'd  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 

Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild-  surmise — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

SONNET 
(June,  1816) 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And  open  face  of  heaven, — to  breathe  a  prayer 

Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 

Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart's  content, 
Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 

And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment  ? 

Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 
Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel, — an  eye 

Watching  the  sailing  cloudlets'  bright  career, 
He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by: 

E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 

XV. 

ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET 
(Written  December  30th,  1816) 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead: 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead; 

That  is  the  Grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights ;  for  when  tired  out  with  fun 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 


JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH  HUNT  465 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never : 
On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there 

shrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 
The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hill? 

LAST  SONNET 

(Written  on  a  Blank  Page  in  Shakespeare's  Poems,  Facing 

"A  Lover's  Complaint") 

(Written  1820) 

Bright  star,  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art — 

Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 

Like  nature's  patient,  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft-fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors — • 
No — yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable, 

Pillow'd  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 
To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 

Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
And  so  live  ever — or  else  swoon  to  death. 

3ames  Ifoenrs  OLefgb  tbunt 

1784-1859 
TO  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET 

(1816) 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, 
Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 
Sole  voice  that's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon, 
When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass; 


466  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 
With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon, 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass; 

Oh  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth, 

Both  have  your  sunshine ;  both,  though  small,  are 

strong 

At  your  clear  hearts ;  and  both  seem  giv'n  to  earth 
To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song — 
In  doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  Mirth. 

Matter  Savage  Xanfcor 

1775-1864 
MILD  IS  THE  PARTING  YEAR,  AND   SWEET 

(Collected  Works,  1846) 
Mild  is  the  parting  year,  and  sweet 

The  odour  of  the  falling  spray; 
Life  passes  on  more  rudely  fleet, 

And  balmless  is  its  closing  day. 
I  wait  its  close,  I  court  its  gloom, 

But  mourn  that  never  must  there  fall 
Or  on  my  breast  or  on  my  tomb 

The  tear  that  would  have  sooth'd  it  all. 

AH  WHAT  AVAILS  THE  SCEPTERED  RACE 
(From  the  same) 

Ah  what  avails  the  sceptered  race, 

Ah  what  the  form  divine ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace! 

Kose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine, 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR  467 

YES  ;  I  WRITE  VERSES 
(From  the  same) 

Yes;  I  write  verses  now  and  then, 
But  blunt  and  flaccid  is  my  pen, 
No  longer  talkt  of  by  young  men 

As  rather  clever: 
In  the  last  quarter  are  my  eyes, 
You  see  it  by  their  form  and  size; 
Is  it  not  time  then  to  be  wise? 

Or  now  or  never. 

Fairest  that  ever  sprang  from  Eve ! 
While  Time  allows  the  short  reprieve, 
Just  look  at  me !  would  you  believe 

'Twas  once  a  lover? 
I  cannot  clear  the  five-bar  gate 
But,  trying  first  its  timber's  state, 
Climb  stiffly  up,  take  breath,  and  wait 

To  trundle  over. 
Thro'  gallopade  I  cannot  swing 
The  entangling  blooms  of  Beauty's  spring: 
I  cannot  say  the  tender  thing, 

Be't  true  or  false, 
And  am  beginning  to  opine 
Those  girls  are  only  half-divine 
Whose  waists  yon  wicked  boys  entwine 

In  giddy  waltz. 

I  fear  that  arm  above  that  shoulder, 
I  wish  them  wiser,  graver,  older, 
Sedater,  and  no  harm  if  colder 

And  panting  less. 
Ah !  people  were  not  half  so  wild 
In  former  days,  when  starchly  mild, 
Upon  her  high-heel'd  Essex  smiled 

The  Brave  Queen  Bess. 


468  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

TO   ROBERT  BROWNING 

(From  the  same) 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  tho'  none  hear 

Beside  the  singer;  and  there  is  delight 

In  praising,  tho'  the  praiser  sit  alone 

And  see  the  prais'd  far  off  him,  far  above. 

Shakespeare  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world's, 

Therefore  on  him  no  speech !  and  brief  for  thee, 

Browning!     Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and  hale, 

No  man  hath  walkt  along  our  roads  with  step 

So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 

So  varied  in  discourse.     But  warmer  climes 

Give  brighter  plumage,  stronger  wing :  the  breeze 

Of  Alpine  heights  thou  playest  with,  borne  on 

Beyond  Sorrento  and  Amalfi,  where 

The  Siren  waits  thee,  singing  song  for  song. 

INTRODUCTION  TO 
THE  LAST  FRUIT  OFF  AN  OLD  TREE 

(1853) 

I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife. 
Nature  I  loved,  and,  next  to  Nature,  Art; 
I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  Life; 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 

:fi5rpan  Mailer  Procter 

(Barry  Cornwall) 

1787-1874 

A  PETITION  TO  TIME 
(From  Poems,  1850) 

Touch  us  gently,  Time! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently, — as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  dream! 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGE  469 

Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three — 
(One  is  lost, — an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead!) 

Touch  us  gently,  Time! 

We've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings: 
Our  ambition,  our  content 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
O'er  Life's  dim  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime: — 
Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time! 


1796-1849 

SONG 
(From  Poems,  1833) 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 

As  many  maidens  be, 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 

Until  she  smiled  on  me; 
Oh !  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright, 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  colds 
To  mine  they  ne'er  reply, 

And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 
The  love-light  in  her  eye: 

Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far, 

Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 


470  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

Cbarles  Xamb 

1775-1834 
TO  HESTER 

(1805) 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try, 
With  vain  endeavour. 

A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed, 
And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 
That  flushed  her  spirit. 

I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call; — if  'twas  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied, 
She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool, 
But  she  was  train'd  in  Nature's  school, 
Nature  had  blest  her. 

A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind, 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 


THOMAS  HOOD  471 

My  sprightly  neighbour,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 
Some  summer  morning, 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 
A  sweet  f  ore- warning  ? 


Ubomas 

1798-1845 
THE  DEATH  BED 

(From  Poems,  1825) 

We  watched  her  breathing  thro'  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  cut. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 
Our  fears  our  hopes  belied — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad, 
And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed — she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 


472  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 

("  Drowned  !  drowned  ! " — Hamlet) 

(First  published  in  Hood's  Magazine,  1844) 

One  more  Unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements ; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing. — 

Touch  her  not  scornfully; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rash  and  undutif ul : 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 


THOMAS  HOOD  473 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses ; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home? 

Who  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 

Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother? 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 

Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas!  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun ! 
Oh !  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 
Feelings  had  changed: 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 

So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 

From  window  and  casement, 

From  garret  to  basement, 

She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 


474  THOMSON  TO  TENNYSON 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river : 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hurled — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  world. 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran, — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it — think  of  it, 
Dissolute  Man! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 
Then,  if  you  can ! 

» 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 
Decently, — kindly, — 
Smooth,  and  compose  them; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly! 

Dreadfully  staring 
Thro'  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fix'd  on  futurity. 


THOMAS  HOOD  475 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 
Into  her  rest. — 
Cross  her  hands  humbly 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast. 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour! 


PART  FIFTH 
VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Ubomas  JSabinoton  flDacaulap 

1800-1859 
BATTLE  OF  IVRY 

(1842) 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all 

glories  are! 
And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Liege,  King  Henry 

of  Navarre! 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and 

of  dance, 

Through  thy  corn-fields  green  and  sunny  vines, 
O  pleasant  land  of  France! 
And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city 

of  the  waters, 

Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourn- 
ing daughters. 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in 

our  joy; 
For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who  wrought 

thy  walls  annoy. 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  a  single  field  hath  turn'd  the 

chance  of  war! 
Hurrah !  hurrah !  for  Ivry,  and  King  Henry  of 

Navarre. 
Oh!  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the 

dawn  of  day, 
We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in 

long  array; 

477 


478  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel 

peers, 
And   Appenzel's   stout   infantry,    and    Egmont's 

Flemish  spears; 
There  rode  the  blood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses 

of  our  land; 
And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon 

in  his  hand; 
And,  as  we  look'd  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine's* 

empurpled  flood, 
And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his 

blood; 
And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the 

fate  of  war, 
To  fight  for  His  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of 

Navarre. 

The  king  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armor 

drest ; 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his 

gallant  crest. 
He  look'd  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his 

eye; 
He  look'd  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was 

stern  and  high. 
Eight  graciously  he  smil'd  on  us,  as  roll'd  from 

wing  to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  in  deafening  shout :  "  God  save 

our  lord,  the  king !  " 
"  And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well 

he  may, 
For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody 

fray, 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine  amidst 

the  ranks  of  war, 
And   be  your   oriflamme   tq-day   the   helmet   of 

Navarre." 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  479 

Hurrah !  the  foes  are  moving.    Hark  to  the  min- 
gled din, 
Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and 

roaring  culverin. 
The  fiery  duke  is  pricking  fast  across  St.  Andre's 

plain, 
With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and 

Almayne. 
Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen 

of  France, 
Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  now  upon  them  with 

the  lance! 
A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand 

spears  in  rest, 
A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the 

snow-white  crest; 
And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rush'd,  while,  like 

a  guiding  star, 
Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blaz'd  the  helmet  of 

Navarre. 

Now,  God  be  prais'd,  the  day  is  ours:  Mayenne 

hath  turn'd  his  rein, 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter;  the  Flemish 

Count  is  slain, 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before 

a  Biscay  gale; 
The  field  is  heap'd  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags, 

and  cloven  mail; 
And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and  all  along 

our  van, 
"  Remember  St.  Bartholomew !  "  was  pass'd  from 

man  to  man. 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry — "  No  Frenchman  is 

my  foe: 
Down,  down  with  every  foreigner,  but  let  your 

brethren  go." 


480  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Oh!  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship 

or  in  war, 
As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of 

Navarre  ? 

Eight  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who  fought 

for  France  to-day; 
And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them  for  a 

prey. 

But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best  in  fight ; 
And  the  good  lord  of  Kosny  hath  ta'en  the  cor- 
net white — 
Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white  hath 

ta'en ; 
The  cornet  white,  with  crosses  black  the  flag  of 

false  Lorraine. 
Up  with  it  high;  unfurl  it  wide; — that  all  the 

host  may  know 
How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house  which 

wrought  His  Church  such  woe. 
Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound  their 

loudest  point  of  war, 
Fling  the  red  shreds  a  footcloth  meet  for  Henry 

of  Navarre. 

Ho!  maidens  of  Vienna;  ho!  matrons  of  Luzerne, 
Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who 

never  shall  return. 
Ho!    Philip,    send,    for    charity,    thy    Mexican 

pistoles, 
That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy 

poor  spearmen's  souls. 
Ho!  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your 

arms  be  bright; 
Ho!  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and 

ward  to-night; 
For  our  God  hath  crush'd  the  tyrant,  our  God 

hath  rais'd  the  slave, 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  481 

And  mock'd  the  counsel  of  the  wise  and  the  valor 

of  the  brave. 
Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom  all 

glories  are; 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry  of 

Navarre ! 

Hlfrefc  Uennsson 

1809-1892 

LOCKSLEY  HALL 
(From  Poems,  1842) 

COMRADES,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet 

'tis  early  morn: 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound 

upon  the  bugle-horn. 

"Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the 

curlews  call, 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over 

Locksley  Hall; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the 
sandy  tracts, 

And  the  hollow-ocean  ridges  roaring  into  cata- 
racts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I 

went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the 

West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro'  the 

mellow  shade, 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a  silver 

braid. 


482  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nourishing  a 

youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result 

of  Time; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful  land 

reposed ; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise 

that  it  closed. 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye 

could  see; 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder 

that  would  be. — 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the 

robin's  breast; 
In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself 

another  crest; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  bur- 

nish'd  dove; 
In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns 

to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  ' 

be  for  one  so  young, 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute 

observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  'My  Cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak 

the  truth  to  me, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets 

to  thee.' 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  colour 

and  a  light, 
As   I   have  seen   the  rosy   red  flushing   in   the 

northern  night. 


ALFKED  TENNYSON  483 

And  she  turn'd — her  bosom  shaken  with  a  sudden 

storm  of  sighs — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel 

eyes — 

Saying,  'I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they 

should  do  me  wrong;' 
Saying,  '  Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin  ? '  weeping, 

'  I  have  loved  thee  long.' 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it  in 

his  glowing  hands 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden 

sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all 

the  chords  with  might; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd 

in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear 
the  copses  ring, 

And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the  full- 
ness of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the 

stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching 

of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted !     O  my  Amy,  mine 

no  more! 
O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland!     O  the  barren, 

barren  shore! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all 

songs  have  sung, 
Puppet   to   a   father's   threat,   and   servile  to   a 

shrewish  tongue ! 


484  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ? — having  known  me 

— to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart 

than  mine! 

Yet  it  shall  be:  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day 
by  day, 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sym- 
pathise with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is:  thou  art  mated 

with  a  clown, 
And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight 

to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have 

spent  its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer 

than  his  horse. 

What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy:  think  not  they 

are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him :  it  is  thy  duty :  kiss  him :  take  his  hand 

in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  over- 
wrought : 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with 
thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to 

understand — 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I  slew  thee 

with  my  hand! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the 

heart's  disgrace, 
Roll'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last 

embrace. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  485 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the 

strength  of  youth! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the 

living  truth! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest 
Nature's  rule! 

Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straitened  fore- 
head of  the  fool! 

Well — 'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster ! — Hadst  thou 

less  unworthy  proved — 
Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than 

ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears 

but  bitter  fruit? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my  heart  be 

at  the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length  of 
years  should  come 

As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads  the  clang- 
ing rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort?  in  division  of  the  records  of 

the  mind? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I 

knew  her,  kind? 

I  remember  one  that  perish'd:  sweetly  did  she 

speak  and  move: 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was 

to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the 

love  she  bore? 
No — she  never  loved  me  truly:  love  is  love  for- 

evermore. 


486  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Comfort?  comfort  scorn'd  of  devils!  this  is  truth 

the  poet  sings, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering 

happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy 

heart  be  put  to  proof, 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when  the  rain  is 

on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art 

staring  at  the  wall, 
Where  the   dying  night-lamp   flickers,   and   the 

shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to 

his  drunken  sleep, 
To  thy  widow'd  marriage-pillows,  to  the  tears  that 

thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  '  Never,  never,'  whisper'd  by 

the  phantom  years, 
And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing 

of  thine  ears; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kind- 
ness on  thy  pain. 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow:  get  thee  to 
thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace;  for  a  tender 

voice  will  cry. 
'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine;  a  lip  to  drain  thy 

trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down:  my  latest  rival 

brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the 

mother's  breast. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  487 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  dearness 

not  his  due. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his :  it  will  be  worthy  of 

the  two. 

O,  I  see  thee,  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty 

part, 
With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a 

daughter's  heart. 

*  They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings — she 

herself  was  not  exempt — 
Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd ' — Perish  in  thy 

self-contempt ! 

Overlive    it — lower    yet — be    happy!    wherefore 

should  I  care? 
I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by 

despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  lighting 

upon  days  like  these? 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to 

golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng'd  with  suitors,  all  the  mar- 
kets overflow. 

I  have  but  an  angry  fancy:  what  is  that  which 
I  should  do? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foe- 
man's  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapour,  and  the 
winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that 

Honour  feels, 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each 

other's  heels. 


488  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness?    I  will  turn  that 

earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou  wondrous 

Mother- Age ! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt  before 

the  strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult 

of  my  life; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  com- 
ing years  would  yield, 

Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his 
father's  field. 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and 

nearer  drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like 

a  dreary  dawn; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before 

him  thon, 
Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the 

throngs  of  men; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping 

something  new: 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the 

things  that  they  shall  do : 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye 

could  see, 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder 

that  would  be; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of 

magic  sails, 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with 

costly  bales; 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  489 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there 

rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the 

central  blue; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south- 
wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro' 
the  thunder-storm; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the 

battle-flags  were  furl'd, 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the 

world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a  fret- 
ful realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  uni- 
versal law. 

So  I  triumph'd  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro'  me 

left  me  dry, 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with 

the  jaundiced  eye; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are 

out  of  joint : 
Science  moves,  but  slowly,  slowly,   creeping  on 

from  point  to  point : 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion  creeping 

nigher, 
Glares   at  one  that  nods  and  winks   behind  a 

slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing 

purpose  runs, 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the 

process  of  the  suns. 


490  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his 

youthful  joys, 
Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  forever  like 

a  boy's? 

Knowledge   comes,   but   wisdom   lingers,    and   I 

linger  on  the  shore, 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more 

and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he 
bears  a  laden  breast, 

Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  still- 
ness of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on 

the  bugle-horn, 
They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target 

for  their  scorn: 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a 

moulder'd  string? 
I  am  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have  loved 

so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness !  woman's 

pleasure,  woman's  pain — 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in 

a  shallower  brain : 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions, 

match'd  with  mine, 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water 

unto  wine — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing. 
Ah  for  some  retreat 

Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  be- 
gan to  beat; 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  491 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  father, 

evil-starr'd ; — 
I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish  uncle's 

ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit — there  to  wander 

far  away, 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of 

the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and 

happy  skies, 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster, 

knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European 

flag, 
Slides   the  bird   o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings 

the  trailer  from  the  crag; 

Droops    the    heavy-blossom'd    bower,    hangs    the 

heavy-fruit'd  tree — 
Summer    isles    of    Eden    lying    in    dark-purple 

spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in 

this  march  of  mind, 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts 

that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall  have 

scope  and  breathing  space ; 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my 

dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew'd,  they  shall  dive,  and 

they  shall  run, 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their 

lances  in  the  sun; 


492  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rain- 
bows of  the  brooks, 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable 
books — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy !  but  I  know  my 

words  are  wild, 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the 

Christian  child. 

I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our 

glorious  gains, 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast 

with  lower  pains ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage — what  to  me  were 

sun  or  clime? 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of 

time — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish 

one  by  one, 
Than    that    earth    should    stand    at    gaze    like 

Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalon ! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  Forward,  for- 
ward let  us  range, 

Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ring- 
ing grooves  of  change. 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the 

younger  day : 
Better  fifty  years  of   Europe  than   a  cycle   of 

Cathay. 

Mother- Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not)  help  me  as 

when  life  begun: 
Rift   the   hills,   and   roll   the   waters,   flash   the 

lightnings,  weigh  the  Sun. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  493 

O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath 

not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all  my 

fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to 

Locksley  Hall! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me 

the  roof -tree  fall. 

Comes   a  vapour   from  the  margin,   blackening 

over  heath  and  holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a 

thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or 

fire  or  snow; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and 

I  go. 


ULYSSES 
(From  the  same) 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 

Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not  me. 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel:  I  will  drink 

Life  to  the  lees :  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 

Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with  those 

That  loved  me,  and  alone ;  on  shore;  and  when 

Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 

Vext  the  dim  sea :  I  am  become  a  name ; 

For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 


494  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Much  have  I  seen  and  known ;  cities  of  men 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 
Myself  not  least,  but  honour'd  of  them  all; 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 
Gleams    that   untravell'd   world,    whose   margir 

fades 

Forever  and  forever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnished,  not  to  shine  in  use! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  piled  on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains :  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things ;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star, 
Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 
This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labour,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.     He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 
There  lies  the  port ;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My  mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toil'd  and  wrought,  and  thought 

with  me — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  495 

The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads — you  and  I  are  old; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil; 
Death  closes  all:  but  something  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks: 
The  long  day  wanes :  the  slow  moon  climbs :  the 

deep 
Moans    round    with    many    voices.      Come,    my 

friends, 

'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows;  for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  Avash  us  down: 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 
Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides;  and  tho' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven;  that  which  we  are,  we 

are; 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 


THE  EPIC 

(INTRODUCTION  TO  MORTE  D'ABTHUB) 
(From  Poems,  1842) 

At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas-eve, — 
The  game  of  forfeits  done — the  girls  all  kiss'd 
Beneath  the  sacred  bush  and  past  away — 
The  parson  Holmes,  the  ppet  Everard  Hall, 


496  VICTORIAN  VEESE 

The  host,  and  I  sat  round  the  wassail-bowl, 
Then  half-way  ebb'd :  and  there  we  held  a  talk, 
How  all  the  old  honrur  had  from  Christmas  gone, 
Or  gone  or  dwindled  down  to  some  old  games 
In  some  odd  nooks  like  this;  till  I,  tired  out 
With  cutting  eights  that  day  upon  the  pond, 
Where,  three  times  slipping  from  the  outer  edge, 
I  bump'd  the  ice  into  three  several  stars, 
Fell  in  a  doze;  and  half -awake  I  heard 
The  parson  taking  wide  and  wider  sweeps, 
Now  harping  on  the  church-commissioners, 
Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism; 
Until  I  woke,  and  found  him  settled  down 
Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 
Right  thro'  the  world,  '  at  home  was  little  left, 
And  none  abroad :  there  was  no  anchor,  none, 
To  hold  by.'     Francis,  laughing,  clapt  his  hand 
On  Everard's  shoulder,  with  '  I  hold  by  him.' 
'  And  I,'  quoth  Everard, '  by  the  wassail-bowl.' 
'  Why  yes,'  I  said, '  we  knew  your  gift  that  way 
At  college :  but  another  which  you  had, 
I  mean  of  verse  (for  so  we  held  it  then), 
,  What  came  of  that  ?  '    '  You  know,'  said  Frank, 

'he  burnt 

His  epic,  his  King  Arthur,  some  twelve  books ' — 
And  then  to  me  demanding  why  ?     '  Oh,  sir, 
He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said,  or  else 
Something  so  said  'twas  nothing — that  a  truth 
Looks  freshest  in  the  fashion  of  the  day: 
God  knows:  he  has  a  mint  of  reasons:  ask. 
It   pleased  me   well   enough.'    '  Nay,   nay,'   said 

Hall, 

'  Why  take  the  style  of  those  heroic  times  ? 
For  nature  brings  not  back  the  Mastodon, 
Nor  we  those  times;  and  why  should  any  man 
Remodel  models?  these  twelve  books  of  mine 
Were  faint  Homeric  echoes,  nothing-worth, 


ALFRED   TENNYSON  497 

Mere     chaff    and    draff,     much     better    burnt.' 

<  But  I,' 
Said   Francis,    'pick'd    the   eleventh   from   this 

hearth 

And  have  it;  keep  a  thing,  its  use  will  come. 
I  hoard  it  as  a  sugar-plum  for  Holmes.' 
He  laugh 'd,  and  I,  tho'  sleepy,  like  a  horse 
That  hears  the  corn-bin  open,  prick'd  my  ears; 
For  I  remember'd  Everard's  college  fame 
When  we  were  Freshmen :  then  at  my  request 
He  brought ;  and  the  poet  little  urged, 
But  with  some  prelude  of  disparagement, 
Read,  mouthing  out  his  hollow  oes  and  aes, 
Deep-chested  music,  and  to  this  result. 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR 


So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 

Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 

Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 

Had  fallen  in  Lyonesse  about  their  Lord, 

King  Arthur:  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 

The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 

Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights, 

And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 

A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 

That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 

On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 

Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 

'  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 

The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 

Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such  a  sleep 

They  sleep — the  men  I  loved.     I  think  that  we 


498  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds. 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride:  for  thou  rememberest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  row'd  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king : 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  after  time,  this  also  shall  be  known: 
But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere : 
Watch   what  thou   seest,   and  lightly  bring  me 

word.' 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
'  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word/ 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he  stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He,  stepping 

down 

By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  499 

And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt: 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.    He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw:  but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
'  Hast  thou  perf  orm'd  my  mission  which  I  gave  ? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  ? ' 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
'  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crags.' 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale: 
'  Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word.' 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere. 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud, 
*  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note 


500  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth, 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done'^ 
What  harm,  undone?  deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumours  of  a  doubt?  but  were  this  kept, 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms, 
Saying,  "  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills." 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honour  and  much  fame  were  lost.' 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit. 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily.: 
'  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  ? ' 
And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
'  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds.' 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  wrath : 
'  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted !     Woe  is  me ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.    I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  would'st  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt; 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  501 

Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 

Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 

Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 

And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence: 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 

I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands.' 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd  the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.      The  great 

brand 

Made  lightnings  in  the  splendour  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  in  an 

arch, 

Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then    spoke    King    Arthur,    drawing    thicker 

breath : 

'  Now  see  I  by  thy  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen  ? ' 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
'  Sir  king,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then   with   both  hands   I  flung  him,   wheeling 

him; 

But  v:hen  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 


502  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere.' 

And    answer    made    King    Arthur,    breathing 

hard: 

'  My  end  draws  nigh ;  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die.' 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 
But,  as  he  walk'd,  King  Arthur  panted  hard, 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sigh'd  the  king, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear,  '  Quick, 

quick ! 

I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die.' 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.    His  own  thoughts  drove  him,  like  a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him,  as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo!  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  503 

Beneath  them;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 
Black-stoled,    black-hooded,    like    a    dream — by 

these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold — and  from 

them  rose 

A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 
Then    murmur'd    Arthur,    'Place   me    in    the 

barge/ 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those  three 

Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  king,  and 

wept. 

But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and  chafed  his 

hands, 

And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood :  for  his  face  was  white 
And  colourless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd  with  drops 
Of  onset;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  from  the  dais-throne — were  parch'd  with 

dust; 

Or,  clotted  irtto  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed  his 

lips. 

So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  king; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 


504  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
'Ah!  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  ROUND  TABLE  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds.' 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge: 
*  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  Himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 
Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  within  Himself  make  pure !  but  thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for  my  soul.    More  things  are  wrought  by 

prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore,  let  thy 

voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves   and   those  who  call  them 

friend? 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest — if  indeed  I  go — 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  505 

(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island  valley  of  Avilion; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
NOT  ever  wind  blows  loudly ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer  sea, 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound.' 
So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted 

swan 

That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

Here  ended  Hall,  and  our  last  light,  that  long 
Had  wink'd  and  threaten'd  darkness,  flared  and 

fell: 

At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to  sleep  with  sound, 
And  waked  with  silence,  grunted  '  Good ! '  but  we 
Sat  rapt :  it  was  the  tone  with  which  he  read — 
Perhaps  some  modern  touches  here  and  there 
Redeem'd  it  from  the  charge  of  nothingness — 
Or  else  we  loved  the  man,  and  prized  his  work; 
I  know  not:  but  we  sitting,  as  I  said, 
The  cock  crew  loud;  as  at  that  time  of  year 
The  lusty  bird  takes  every  hour  for  dawn: 
Then  Francis,  muttering,  like  a  man  ill-used, 
'  There  now — that's  nothing ! '  drew  a  little  back, 
And  drove  his  heel  into  the  smoulder'd  log, 
That  sent  a  blast  of  sparkles  up  the  flue: 
And  so  to  bed;  where  yet  in  sleep  I  seem'd 
To  sail  with  Arthur  under  looming  shpres, 
Point  after  point ;  till  on  to  dawn,  when  dreams, 
Began  to  feel  the  truth  and  stir  of  day, 


506  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

To  me,  methought,  who  waited  with  a  crowd, 
There  came  a  bark  that,  blowing  forward,  bore 
King  Arthur,  like  a  modern  gentleman 
Of  stateliest  port;  and  all  the  people  cried, 
'  Arthur  is  come  again ;  he  cannot  die.' 
Then  those  that  stood  upon  the  hills  behind 
Repeated — 'Come  again,  and  thrice  as  fair;' 
And,  further  inland,  voices  echoed — '  Come 
With  all  good  things,  and  war  shall  be  no  more.' 
At  this  a  hundred  bells  began  to  peal, 
That  with  the  sound  I  woke,  and  heard  indeed 
The  clear  church-bells   ring   in   the   Christmas 
morn. 


SIR  GALAHAD 
(From  the  same) 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favours  fall ! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall: 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  507 

But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  shrine; 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns: 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride; 

I  hear  a  voice  but  none  are  there; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chaunts  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark; 
I  leap  on  board:  no  helmsman  steers: 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail: 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Oh,  blessed  vision !  blood  of  God ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 
Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go, 


508  VICTORIAN  VEESE 

The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  mom, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand  and  mail; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'w  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A  maiden  knight — to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odours  haunt  my  dreams; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armour  that  I  wear, 
This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  nutter,  voices  hover  clear: 
'  O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God ! 

Ride  on !  the  prize  is  near.' 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  509 

BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK 
(From  the  same) 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  0  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

TEARS,  IDLE  TEARS 
(Song  from  The  Princess,  edition  1850) 

'  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

'  Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 


510  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 

That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge; 

So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

'  Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

'  Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more.' 


BUGLE  SONG 
(From  the  same) 

The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story: 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elf  land  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying, 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 
They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  511 

Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

IN  MEMORIAM 
(From  In  Memoriam,  1850) 

Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 
Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute;. 

Thou  madest  Death;  and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 
Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why, 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die; 

And  thou  hast  made  him:  thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 
The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou : 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day; 
They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be: 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee, 

And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith:  we  cannot  know; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness :  let  it  grow. 


512  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.  We  are  fools  and  slight; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear : 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  in  me; 

What  seem'd  my  worth  since  I  began; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 
And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 
Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth; 
Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth, 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

MAUD 

(From  Maud,  1855) 

XVIII. 
I. 

I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none. 

And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 

And  sweetly,  on  and  on 

Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish'd-for  end, 

Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised  good. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  513 

II. 

None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurels'  pattering  talk 
Seera'd  her  light  foot  along  the  garden  walk, 
And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes  once 

more; 

But  even  then  I  heard  her  close  the  door, 
The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and  she  is  gone. 

in. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none. 

Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  deceased. 

O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 

In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy  delicious 

East, 

Sighing  for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  tho'  thy  limbs  have  here  increased, 
Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair, 
And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 
With  honey'd  rain  and  delicate  air, 
And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 
Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed  my  fate, 
And  made  my  life  a  perfumed  altar-flame; 
And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have  spread 
With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy  great 
Forefathers  of  the  thornless  garden,  there 
Shadowing  the  snow-limb'd  Eve  from  whom  she 

came. 

IV. 

Here  will  I  lie,  while  these  long  branches  sway. 

And  yon  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy  day 

Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play, 

Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn, 

As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be  born 


514  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

To  labour  and  the  mattock-harden'd  hand, 

Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to  understand 

A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 

That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron  skies, 

Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes, 

Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and  brand 

His  nothingness  into  man. 

v. 

But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 

Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a  pearl 

The  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow  sky, 

And  do  accept  my  madness,  and  would  die 

To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one  simple  girl. 

VI. 

Would  die;  for  sullen-seeming  Death  may  give 

More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 

In  our  low  world,  where  yet  'tis  sweet  to  live. 

Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass; 

It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me 

A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 

A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 

VII. 

Not  die ;  but  live  a  life  of  truest  breath, 
And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal  wrongs. 
O  why  should  Love,  like  men  in  drinking-songs, 
Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust  of  death  ? 
Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss, 
Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  loving  kiss, 
Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer  this? 
'  The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven  here 
With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  himself  more 
dear.' 


ALFEED  TENNYSON  515 

VIII. 

Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell 
Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder  bay? 
And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver  knell 
Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in  bridal  white, 
And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses  play; 
But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed  her  sight 
And  given  false  death  her  hand,  and  stol'n  away 
To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless  fancies  dwell 
Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden  day. 
May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace  affright! 
Dear  heart,  I  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy  spell. 
My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight, 
My  own  heart's  heart,  my  ownest  own,  farewell; 
It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go: 
And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and  fell 
Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night! 
Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the  glow 
Of  your  soft  splendours  that  you  look  so  bright? 
/  have  climbed  nearer  out  of  lonely  Hell. 
Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things  below, 
Beat  with  my  heart  more  blest  than  heart  can  tell, 
Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent  woe 
That  seems  to  draw — but  it  shall  not  be  so : 
Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 


CROSSING  THE  BAR 

(1889) 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 


516  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless 
deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 


IRobert  Browning 

1812-1889 
MY  LAST  DUCHESS 

FERRARA 

(First  published,  1836) 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now;  Fra  Pandolf's  hand 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
Will  't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?    I  said 
"  Fra  Pandolf  "  by  design,  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 
The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 
But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 
And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there ;  so,  not  the  first 


ROBERT  BROWNING  517 

Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  'twas  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 
Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek :  perhaps 
Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  "  Her  mantle  laps 
Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat :  "  such  stuff 
Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 
For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 
A  heart — how  shall  I  say? — too  soon  made  glad, 
Too  easily  impressed;  she  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 
Sir,  'twas  all  one !     My  favor  at  her  breast, 
The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 
Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 
She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 
Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech, 
Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men, — good !  but 

thanked 

Somehow — I  know  not  how — as  if  she  ranked 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 
With  anybody's  gift.     Who'd  stoop  to  blame 
This  sort  of  trifling?     Even  had  you  skill 
In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — to  make  your  will 
Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "  Just  this 
Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me;  here  you  miss, 
Or  there  exceed  the  mark  " — and  if  she  let 
Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 
Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 
— E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping ;  and  I  choose 
Never  to  stoop.     Oh,  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 
Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed  without 
Much  the  same  smile?     This  grew;  I  gave  com- 
mands ; 

Then    all    smiles    stopped    together.    There    she 
stands 


518  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

As  if  alive.     Will  't  please  you  rise?    We'll  meet 
The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat 
The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 
Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretense 
Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed; 
Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 
At  starting,  is  my  object.     Kay,  we'll  go 
Together  down,  sir.     Notice  Xeptune,  though, 
Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 
Which   Glaus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for 
me! 

SONG 
(From  Pippa  Passes,  1841) 

The  year  's  at  the  spring 
The  day  's  at  the  morn ; 
Morning  's  at  seven; 
The  hillside  's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark  's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail  's  on  the  thorn : 
God  's  in  his  heaven — 
All  's  right  with  the  world! 

HOME  THOUGHTS,  FROM  ABROAD 
(From  BflU  and  Pomegranate*  No.  VII. ,  1845) 

I. 

Oh,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April's  there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England  sees,  some  morn- 
ing, unaware, 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brush-wood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England — now! 


ROBERT  BROWNING  519 

II. 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 
And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows! 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms    and    dewdrops — at    the    bent    spray's 

edge — 
That's  the  wise  thrush;  he  sings  each  song  twice 

over 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture! 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 
— Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower! 


THE  GU ARDIAN- ANGEL  : 

A  PICTURE   AT    FANO 

(From  Men  and  Women,  1855) 

I. 

Dear  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou  only  leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him, 
for  me ! 

Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 
Shall  find  performed  thy  special  ministry, 

And  time  come  for  departure,  thou,  suspending 

Thy  flight,  may'st  see  another  child  for  tending, 
Another  still,  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 

II. 

Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no  more, 

From  where  thou  stand'st  now,  to  where  I  gaze, 
And  suddenly  my  head  be  covered  o'er 


520  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

With  those  wings,  white  above  the  child  who 

prays 

Now  on  that  tomb — and  I  shall  feel  thee  guard- 
ing 

Me,  out  of  all  the  world ;  for  me,  discarding 
Yon  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits  and  opes  its 
door! 

III. 

I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head 

Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child,  I  know, 
For  I  should  have  thy  gracious  face  instead, 
Thou  bird  of  God!     And  wilt  thou  bend  me 

low 

Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  together, 
And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tether 
Me   as   thy   lamb   there,   with   thy   garment's 
spread  ? 

IV. 

If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 

My   head    beneath    thine,    while    thy    healing 

hands 

Close-covered  both  my  eyes  beside  thy  breast, 
Pressing  the  brain  which  too  much  thought  ex- 
pands 

Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smoothing 
Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  soothing, 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy  and  supprest. 

V. 

How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would  be  repaired! 

I  think  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies 
And  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was  bared 

After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 


ROBERT  BROWNING  521 

O  world,  as  God  has  made  it!  all  is  beauty; 
And  knowing  this,  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 
What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared? 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 

CALLED  ' '  THE  FAULTLESS  PAINTER  " 

(From  Men  and  Women,  1855) 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
No,  my  Lucrezia;  bear  with  me  for  once: 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart  ? 
I'll  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear. 
Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price, 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.     Will  it?  tenderly? 
Oh,  I'll  content  him, — but  to-morrow,  Love! 
I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 
This  evening  more  than  usual,  and  it  seems 
As  if — forgive  now — should  you  let  me  sit 
Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in  mine 
And  look  a  half  hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 
Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.     Let  us  try. 
To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this! 
Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 
And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 
Don't   count   the   time   lost,   neither;   you   must 

serve 
For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require : 


522  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

It  saves  a  model.     So!  keep  looking  so — 

My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds! 

— How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 

Even  to  put  the  pearl  there!  oh,  so  sweet — 

My  face,  my  moon,  iny  everybody's  moon, 

Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his, 

And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 

While  she  looks — no  one's :  very  dear,  no  less. 

You  smile?  why,  there's  my  picture  ready  made. 

There's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony ! 

A  common  grayness  silvers  every  thing, — 

All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 

— You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 

(That's  gone,  you  know), — but  I,  at  every  point; 

My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 

To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 

There's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top; 

That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 

Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside; 

The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden ;  days  decrease, 

And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  every  thing. 

Fh?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape 

As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 

And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 

A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 

How  strange  now  looks  the  life  he  makes  us  lead ; 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are ! 

I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter:  let  it  lie! 

This  chamber  for  example — turn  your  head — 

All  that's  behind  us!     You  don't  understand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak: 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 

— It  is  the  thing,  Love !  so  such  things  should 

be— 

Behold  Madonna! — I  am  bold  to  say. 
I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know, 


ROBEBT  BltOWNING  523 

What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 
I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep — 
Do  easily,  too — when  I  say,  perfectly, 
I  do  not  boast,  perhaps :  yourself  are  judge 
Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week, 
And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 
At  any  rate  'tis  easy,  all  of  it! 
No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's  long  past : 
I  do  what  many  dream  of  all  their  lives. 
— Dream?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do, 
And  fail  in  doing.     I  could  count  twenty  such 
On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town, 
Who  strive — you  don't  know  how  the  others  strive 
To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 
Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat, — 
Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Someone  says, 
(I  know  his  name,  no  matter) — so  much  less ! 
Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia:  I  am  judged. 
There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 
In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed   and  stopped-up 

brain, 

Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 
This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand  of 

mine. 
Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves,  I 

know, 

Eeach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's  shut  to  me, 
Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough, 
Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world. 
My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 
The  sudden  blood  of  these  men!  at  a  word — 
Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 
I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself, 
Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 
Or  their  praise  either.     Somebody  remarks 
Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 
His  hue  mistaken ;  what  of  that  ?  or  else, 


524  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered;  what  of  that? 
Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain 

care? 

Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 
Or  what's  a  heaven  for  ?    All  is  silver-gray, 
Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art :  the  worse ! 
I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain ; 
And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 
"  Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 
Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world — "    No 

doubt. 

Yonder's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 
The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago. 
('Tis  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 
Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 
Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 
Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him. 
Above  and  through  his  art — for  it  gives  way; 
That  arm  is  wrongly  put — and  there  again — 
A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines. 
Its  body,  so  to  speak :  its  soul  is  right, 
He  means  right — that,  a  child  may  understand. 
Still,  what  an  arm !  and  I  could  alter  it : 
But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch — 
Out  of  me,  out  of  me !     And  wherefore  out  ? 
Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul, 
We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you! 
Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think — 
More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 
But  had  you — oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow. 
And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 
And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 
The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare — 
Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought   a 

mind ! 

Some  women  do  so.    Had  the  mouth  there  urged 
"  God  and  the  glory !  never  care  for  gain. 


ROBERT  BROWNING  525 

The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that? 
Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo! 
Rafael  is  waiting :  up  to  God,  all  three !  " 
I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seems : 
Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  overrules. 
Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self: 
•  The  rest  avail  not.    Why  do  I  need  you  ? 
What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo? 
In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not ; 
And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive : 
Yet    the   will's    somewhat — somewhat,    too,    the 

power — 

And  thus  we  half -men  struggle.     At  the  end, 
God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 
'Tis  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 
That  I  am  something  underrated  here, 
Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth. 
I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day, 
For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 
The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside; 
But  they  speak  sometimes ;  I  must  bear  it  all. 
Well  may  they  speak!     That  Francis,  that  first 

time, 

And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau ! 
I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 
Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 
In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look, — 
One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 
Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile, 
One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 
The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 
I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me, 
All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes, 
Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls 
Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts, — 
And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond, 
This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work, 


526  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward! 

A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days? 

And  had  you  not  grown  restless     .     .     .     but  1 

know — 

'Tis  done  and  past ;  'twas  right,  my  instinct  said ; 
Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray, 
And  I'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 
Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his 

world. 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way? 
You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 
The  triumph  was,  to  have  ended  there;  then,  if 
I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost? 
Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's 

gold, 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine! 
"  Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that ; 
The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 
But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife  " — 
Men  will  excuse  me.     I  am  glad  to  judge 
Both  pictures  in  your  presence;  clearer  grows 
My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 
For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 
Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 
To    Rafael    ...    I    have    known    it    all    these 

years  .  .  . 
(When    the    young   man    was   flaming    out    his 

thoughts 

Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 
Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 
"  Friend,  there's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 
Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how, 
Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 
As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings, 
Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours !  " 
To  Rafael's! — And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 
I  hardly  dare  .  .  .  yet,  only  you  to  see, 


ROBERT  BROWNING  527 

Give  the  chalk  here — quick,  thus  the  line  should 

I 

Ay,  but  the  soul !  he's  Kaf ael !  rub  it  out ! 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 

(What  he?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo? 

Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those  ?) 

If  really  there  was  such  a  chance,  so  lost, — 

Is,     whether     you're — not     grateful — but     more 

pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.    And  you  smile  indeed! 
This  hour  has  been  an  hour !     Another  smile  ? 
If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 
I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend? 
I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 
See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now ;  there's  a  star ; 
Morello's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall, 
The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by. 
Come  from  the  window,  Love, — come  in,  at  last, 
Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 
We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.     God  is  just. 
King  Francis  may  forgive  me:  oft  at  nights 
When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out, 
The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  by  brick 
Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold, 
That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with! 
Let  us  but  love  each  other.    Must  you  go? 
That  Cousin  here  again?  he  waits  outside? 
Must  see  you — you,  and  not  with  me?     Those 

loans  ? 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay?  you  smiled  for  that? 
Well,  let  smiles  buy  me !  have  you  more  to  spend  ? 
While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 
Are  left  me,  work's  my  ware,  and  what's  it  worth  ? 
I'll  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 
The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 
Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 
How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  France, 


528  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

One  picture,  just  one  more — the  Virgin's  face, 

Not  yours  this  time !     I  want  you  at  my  side 

To  hear  them — that  is,  Michel  Agnolo — 

Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 

Will  you?    To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 

I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand — there,  there, 

And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 

If  he  demurs;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 

To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.     Beside, 

What's  better  and  what's  all  I  care  about, 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff! 

Love,  does  that  please  you?    Ah,  but  what  does 

he, 
The  Cousin !  what  does  he  to  please  you  more  ? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis! — it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich !     Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they 

died: 

And  I  have  labored  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.     Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures — let  him  try! 
No  doubt,  there's  something  strikes  a  balance. 

Yes, 

You  love  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 
This   must   suffice   me   here.    What   would   one 

have? 
In    heaven,    perhaps,    new    chances,    one    more 

chance — 


ROBERT  BROWNING  529 

Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard,  Eafael,  Agnolo  and  me 
To  cover — the  three  first  without  a  wife, 
While  I  have  mine!     So — still  they  overcome 
Because  there's  still  Lucrezia, — as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle!     Go,  my  Love. 


PROSPICE 
(From  Dramatis  Personal,  1864) 

Fear  death  ? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go; 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall, 

Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be 
gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last! 

I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and 
forebore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 

No !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my 
peers. 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 


530  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 

Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of 
pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !     I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA 
(From  the  same) 

I. 

Grow  old  along  with  me! 
The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made : 
Our  times  are  in  His  hand  • 

Who  saith,  "  A  whole  I  planned, 
Youth  shows  but  half;  trust  God:  see  all,  nor  be 
afraid!" 

II. 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed,  "  Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall  ? " 
Not  that,  admiring  stars, 
It  yearned,  "  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars ; 
Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  trans- 
scends  them  all !  " 

III. 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 
Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 


ROBERT   BROWNING  531 

Do  I  remonstrate;  folly  wide  the  mark! 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without, 

Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

IV. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 
On  Joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast; 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men; 

Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird?    Frets  doubt  the 
maw-crammed  beast? 

V. 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 
To  That  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive  1 
A  spark  disturbs  our  clod; 
Nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must 
believe. 

VI. 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 
That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough. 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go  1 
Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain ! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain; 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang;  dare,  never  grudge 
the  throe! 

VII. 

For  thence, — a  paradox 

Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 


532  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail: 
What  I  aspired  to  be, 
And  was  not,  comforts  me: 

A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink 
i'  the  scale. 

VIII. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 
Whose  flesh  hath  soul  to  suit, 
Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play  ? 
To  man,  propose  this  test — 
Thy  body  at  its  best, 

How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone 
way? 

IX. 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use : 
I  own  the  Past  profuse 
Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn: 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "How  good  to 
live  and  learn  ?  " 

x. 

Not  once  beat  "  Praise  be  Thine ! 
I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  Power,  see  now  Love  perfect  too: 
Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan: 
Thanks  that  I  was  a  man ! 

.    Maker,   remake   complete, — I   trust   what    Thou 
shalt  do!" 

XI. 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh; 
Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 


ROBERT  BROWNING  533 

Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest: 
Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 
To  match  those  manifold 

Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain  most,  as  we  did 
best! 

XII. 

Let  us  not  always  say, 

"  Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the 

whole!" 

As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 
Let  us  cry  "  All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than 

flesh  helps  soul !  " 

XIII. 

Therefore  I  summon  age 
To  grant  youth's  heritage, 
Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term : 
Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 
A  man,  for  aye  removed 

From  the  developed  brute;  a  God  though  in  the 
germ. 

XIV. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new: 

Fearless  and  unperplexed, 

When  I  wage  battle  next, 

What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor  to  indue. 

XV. 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 
My  gain  or  loss  thereby; 


534  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Leave  the  fire-ashes,  what  survives  is  gold: 

And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 

Give  life  its  praise  or  blame: 

Young,  all  lay  in  dispute ;  I  shall  know,  being  old. 

XVI. 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 

The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray : 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots — "  Add  this  to  the  rest, 

Take  it  and  try  its  worth :  here  dies  another  day." 

XVII. 

So,  still  within  this  life, 
Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 
Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 
"  This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main, 
That  acquiescence  vain : 

The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the 
Past." 

XVIII. 

For  more  is  not  reserved 
To  man  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day: 
Here,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 

Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's  true 
play. 

XIX. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 
Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 
Toward   making,   than   repose   on   aught   found 
made! 


ROBERT  BROWNING  535 

So,  better,  age,  exempt 
From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.     Thou  waitedst  age:  wait  death,  nor  be 
afraid ! 

xx. 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine 

own, 

With  knowledge  absolute, 
Subject  to  no  dispute 
From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel 

alone. 

XXI. 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 
Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past! 
Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 
Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 
Right?    Let   age  speak  the  truth   and  give  us 
peace  at  last! 

XXII. 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate? 
Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 
Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive; 
Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 
Match  me:  we  all  surmise, 

They,  this  thing,  and  I,  that :  whom  shall  my  soul 
believe  ? 

XXIII. 


536  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  price; 
O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 
Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in 
a  trice: 

XXIV. 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 
So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account ; 
All  instincts  immature, 
All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the 
man's  amount: 


xxv. 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  es- 
caped; 

All  I  could  never  be, 

All,  men  ignored  in  me, 

This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher 
shaped. 

XXVI. 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 
That  metaphor !  and  feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay, — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
"  Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change ;  the  Past  gone, 
seize  to-day ! " 


ROBERT  BROWNING  537 

XXVII. 

Fool !    All  that  is,  at  all, 
Lasts  ever,  past  recall; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure : 
What  entered  into  thee, 
That  was,  is,  and  shall  be: 

Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops :  Potter  and  clay 
endure. 

XXVIII. 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 
Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest: 
Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 

Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  im- 
pressed. 

XXIX. 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves, 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves, 

Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press? 

What  though,  about  thy  rim, 

Skull-things  in  order  grim 

Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress  ? 

XXX. 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up ! 
To  uses  of  a  cup, 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal, 
The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 
The  Master's  lips  aglow! 
Thou,   heaven's   consummate   cup,    what 
thou  with  earth's  wheel? 


538  VICTOKIAN  \7ERSE 

XXXI. 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 
Thee,  God,  who  moldest  men; 
And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 
Did  I — to  the  wheel  of  life 
With  shapes  and  colors  rife, 
Bound  dizzily — mistake  my   end,  to   slake   Thy 
thirst : 

XXXII. 

So,  take  and  use  Thy  work: 
Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 
What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warnings  past  the 

aim! 

My  times  be  in  Thy  hand! 
Perfect  the  cup  as  planned! 
Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the 

same! 


EPILOGUE 
(From  Asolando,  1890) 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 
Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools  think, 

imprisoned — 

Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you 
loved  so, 
— Pity  me? 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken! 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 

With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,   the  un- 
manly ? 

Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless  did  I  drivel 
— Being — who  ? 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING  539 

One  who   never   turned   his   back   but   marched 

breast  forward, 

Xever  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted,  wrong 

would  triumph, 

Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer! 
Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should 

be, 

"  Strive  and  thrive !  "  cry  "  Speed, — fight  on,  fare 
ever 

There  as  here !  " 


]£Ii3abetb  3Barrett  Browning 

1809-1861 

A  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT 
(From  Poems,  1844) 


What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 

Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban, 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat, 
And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 

With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river. 

n. 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river : 


540  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 
And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 
And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

in. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flowed  the  river; 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can, 
With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed, 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  the  leaf  indeed 

To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

IV. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river!), 

Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a  man, 

Steadily  from  the  outside  ring, 

And  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes,  as  he  sat  by  the  river. 

v. 

"  This  is  the  way,"  laughed  the  great  god  Pan 

(Laughed  while  he  sat  by  the  river), 
"  The  only  way,  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed." 
Then,  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the  reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

VI. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan! 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die. 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING  541 

VII. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 

To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man: 
The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain, — 
For  the  reed  which  grows  nevermore  again 

As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  in  the  river. 


BONNETS 

CHEERFULNESS  TAUGHT  BY  REASON 

I  think  we  are  too  ready  with  complaint 

In  this  fair  world  of  God's.     Had  we  no  hope 

Indeed  beyond  the  zenith  and  the  slope 

Of  yon  grey  blank  of  sky,  we  might  grow  faint 

To  muse  upon  eternity's  constraint 

Round  our  aspirant  souls;  but  since  the  scope 

Must  widen  early,  is  it  well  to  droop, 

For  a  few  days  consumed  in  loss  and  taint? 

O  pusillanimous  Heart,  be  comforted 

And,  like  a  cheerful  traveller,  take  the  road, 

Singing  beside  the  hedge.    What  if  the  bread 

Be  bitter  in  thine  inn,  and  thou  unshod 

To  meet  the  flints?    At  least  it  may  be  said, 

"Because  the  way  is  short,  I  thank  thee,  God." 

THE  PROSPECT 

Methinks  we  do  as  fretful  children  do, 

Leaning  their  faces  on  the  window-pane 

To  sigh  the  glass  dim  with  their  own  breath's 

stain, 

And  shut  the  sky  and  landscape  from  their  view  : 
And  thus,  alas,  since  God  the  maker  drew 
A  mystic  separation  'twixt  those  twain, 
The  life  beyond  us,  and  our  souls  in  pain, 


542  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

We  miss  the  prospect  which  we  are  called  unto 
By  grief  we  are  fools  to  use.     Be  still  and  strong. 

0  man,  my  brother!  hold  thy  sobbing  breath, 
And  keep   thy   soul's   large   window   pure   from 

wrong 

That  so,  as  life's  appointment  issueth, 
Thy  vision  may  be  clear  to  watch  along 
The  sunset  consummation-lights  of  death. 

WORK 

What  are  we  set  on  earth  for?     Say,  to  toil; 

Nor  seek  to  leave  thy  tending  of  the  vines 

For  all  the  heat  o'  the  day,  till  it  declines, 

And  Death's  mild  curfew  shall  from  work  assoil. 

God  did  anoint  thee  with  His  odorous  oil, 

To  wrestle,  not  to  reign;  and  He  assigns 

All  thy  tears  over,  like  pure  crystallines, 

For  younger  fellow-workers  of  the  soil 

To  wear  for  amulets.     So  others  shall 

Take  patience,  labour,  to  their  heart  and  hand, 

From  thy  hand  and  thy  heart  and  thy  brave  cheer. 

And  God's  grace  fructify  through  thee  to  all. 

The  least  flower,  with  a  brimming  cup  may  stand, 

And  share  its  dew-drop  with  another  near. 

(From  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,  1850) 

I. 

1  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 

Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-for  years, 
Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young : 
And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 
I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears, 
The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years, 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING  543 

Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 
A  shadow  across  me.     Straightway  I  was  'ware, 
So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 
Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair; 
And  a  voice  said  in  mastery,  while  I  strove, — 
"  Guess  now  who  holds  thee?  "— "  Death,"  I  said. 

But,  there, 
The  silver  answer  rang, — "  Not  Death,  but  Love." 

VI. 

Go  from  me.    Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.    Nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forbore — 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.     The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  .1  sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears  that  name  of  thine, 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two. 

XXXV. 

If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange 
And  be  all  to  me?     Shall  I  never  miss 
Home-talk  and  blessing  and  the  common  kiss 
That  comes  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count  it  strange, 
When  I  look  up,  to  drop  on  a  new  range 
Of  walls  and  floors,  another  home  than  this? 
Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me  which  is 
Filled  by  dead  eyes  too  tender  to  know  change? 
That's  hardest.     If  to  conquer  love,  has  tried, 
To  conquer  grief,  tries  more,  as  all  things  prove; 


544  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

For  grief  indeed  is  love  and  grief  beside. 
Alas,  I  have  grieved  so  I  am  hard  to  love. 
Yet  love  me — wilt  thou  ?     Open  thine  heart  wide, 
And  fold  within  the  wet  wings  of  thy  dove. 

XLIII. 

How  do  I  love  thee?    Let  me  count  the  ways. 

I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 

My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 

For  the  ends  of  Being,  and  ideal  Grace. 

I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  everyday's 

Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 

I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  flight; 

I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 

I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 

In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith. 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 

With  my  lost  saints, — I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 

Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life ! — and,  if  God  choose, 

I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 


Cbevenii  Urencb 

1807-1886 


Some  murmur  when  their  sky  is  clear, 

And  wholly  bright  to  view, 
If  one  small  speck  of  dark  appear 

In  their  great  heaven  of  blue. 
And  some  with  thankful  love  are  filled, 

If  but  one  streak  of  light, 
One  ray  of  God's  good  mercy,  gild 

The  darkness  of  their  night. 


RICHARD  CHEVENIX  TRENCH  545 


II. 


In  palaces  are  hearts  that  ask, 

In  discontent  and  pride, 
Why  life  is  such  a  dreary  task, 

And  all  good  things  denied. 
And  hearts  in  poorest  huts  admire 

How  love  has  in  their  aid 
(Love  that  not  ever  seems  to  tire) 

Such  rich  provision  made. 


jfrancis  TKHUliam  Bourfcillon 

1852- 
THE  NIGHT  HAS  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  day  but  one; 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 

With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies 

When  love  is  done. 

Bbeneser  Elliott 

1781-1849 
A  POET'S   EPITAPH 

Stop,  Mortal!     Here  thy  brother  lies, 

The  Poet  of  the  Poor. 
His  books  were  rivers,  woods,  and  skies, 

The  meadow,  and  the  moor; 


546  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

His  teachers  were  the  torn  hearts  wail, 

The  tyrant  and  the  slave, 
The  street,  the  factory,  the  jail, 

The  palace — and  the  grave! 
Sin  met  thy  brother  everywhere ! 

And  is  thy  brother  blamed? 
From  passion,  danger,  doubt,  and  care, 

He  no  exemption  claim'd. 
The  meanest  thing,  earth's  feeblest  worm, 

He  fear'd  to  scorn  or  hate; 
But,  honouring  in  a  peasant's  form 

The  equal  of  the  great, 
He  bless'd  the  Steward,  whose  wealth  makes 

The  poor  man's  little  more; 
Yet  loath'd  the  haughty  wretch  that  takes 

From  plunder'd  labour's  store. 
A  hand  to  do,  a  head  to  plan, 

A  heart  to  feel  and  dare — 
Tell  man's  worst  foes,  here  lies  the  man 

Who  drew  them  as  they  are. 


PLAINT 

Dark,  deep,  and  cold  the  current  flows 
Unto  the  sea  where  no  wind  blows, 
Seeking  the  land  which  no  one  knows. 

O'er  its  sad  gloom  still  comes  and  goes 
The  mingled  wail  of  friends  and  foes, 
Borne  to  the  land  which  no  one  knows. 

Why  shrieks  for  help  yon  wretch,  who  goes 
With  millions,  from  a  world  of  woes. 
Unto  the  land  which  no  one  knows  I 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY  547 

Though  myriads  go  with  him  who  goes, 
Alone  he  goes  where  no  wind  blows, 
Unto  the  land  which  no  one  knows. 

For  all  must  go  where  110  wind  blows, 
And  none  can  go  for  him  who  goes; 
None,  none  return  whence  no  one  knows. 

Yet  why  should  he  who  shrieking  goes 
With  millions,  from  a  world  of  woes, 
Reunion  seek  with  it,  or  those? 

Alone  with  God,  where  no  wind  blows, 
And  Death,  his  shadow — doomed,  he  goes: 
That  God  is  there  the  shadow  shows. 

Oh,  shoreless  Deep,  where  no  wind  blows! 
And,  thou,  oh,  Land  which  no  one  knows! 
That  God  is  All,  His  shadow  shows. 


Cbarles 

1819-1875 
THE  DAY  OF  THE  LORD 

The  Day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand,  at  hand: 

Its  storms  roll  up  the  sky: 
The  nations  sleep  starving  on  heaps  of  gold; 

All  dreamers  toss  and  sigh; 
The  night  is  darkest  before  the  morn; 
When  the  pain  is  sorest  the  child  is  born, 

And  the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 

Gather  you,  gather  you,  angels  of  God — 
Freedom,  and  Mercy,  and  Truth; 

Come !  for  the  Earth  is  grown  coward  and  old, 
Come  down,  and  renew  us  her  youth. 


548  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

V>  isdom,  Self-Sacrifice,  Daring,  and  Love, 
Haste  to  the  battle-field,   stoop   from  above, 
To  the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 

Gather  you,  gather  you,  hounds  of  hell — 

Famine,  and  Plague,  and  War; 
Idleness,  Bigotry,   Cant,   and  Misrule, 

Gather,  and  fall  in  the  snare! 
Hireling  and  Mammonite,  Bigot  and  Knave, 
Crawl  to  the  battle-field,  sneak  to  your  grave, 

In  the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 

Who  would  sit  down  and  sigh  for  a  lost  age  of  gold, 

While  the  Lord  of  all  ages  is  here? 
True  hearts  will  leap  up  at  the  trumpet  of  God, 

And  those  who  can  suffer,  can  dare. 
Each  old  age  of  gold  was  an  iron  age  too, 
And  the  meekest  of  saints  may  find  stern  work  to  do, 

In  the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 


TFIE  SANDS  OF  DEE 

(From  Alton  Locke,  1849) 

"  O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 

And   call   the   cattle   home, 

And   call   the   cattle   home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee ;  " 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  with  foam, 

And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see. 

The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land: 
And  never  home  came  she. 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY  549 

"  Oh !  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair 
Above  the  nets  at  sea? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel  crawling  foam, 
The  cruel  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea : 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 


CLEAR  AND  COOL 

(Song  from  The  Water  Babies,  1863) 

Clear  and  cool,  clear  and  cool, 
By  laughing  shallow,  and  dreaming  pool; 

Cool  and  clear,  cool  and  clear, 
By  shining  shingle,  and  foaming  wear; 
Under  the  crag  where  the  ouzel  sings, 
And  the  ivied  wall  where  the  church-bell  rings, 

Undefiled,  for  the  undefiled; 
Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child. 

Dank  and  foul,  dank  and  foul, 
By  the  smoky  town  in  its  murky  cowl; 

Foul  and  dank,  foul  and  dank, 
By  wharf  and  sewer  and  slimy  bank; 
Darker  and  darker  the  further  I  go, 
Baser  and  baser  the  richer  I  grow; 

Who  dare  sport  with  the  sin-defiled? 
Shrink  from  me,  turn  from  me,  mother  and  child. 


550  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Strong  and  free,  strong  and  free; 
The  floodgates  are  open,  away  to  the  sea. 

Free  and  strong,  free  and  strong, 
Cleansing  my  streams  as  I  hurry  along 
To  the  golden  sands,  and  the  leaping  bar, 
And  the  taintless  tide  that  awaits  me  afar, 
As  I  lose  myself  in  the  infinite  main, 
Like  a  soul  that  has  sinned  and  is  pardoned  again. 

Undefiled,  for  the  undefiled; 
Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child. 


Milliam  Barnes 

1801-1886 
EVENEN  IN  THE  VILLAGE 

(From  Poems  of  Rural  Life,  1844) 

Now  the  light  o'  the  west  is  a-turn'd  to  gloom, 

An'  the  men  be  at  hwome  vrom  ground; 
An'  the  bells  be  a-zenden  all  down  the  Coombc 
From  tower,  their  mwoansome  sound. 

An'  the  wind  is  still, 
An'  the  house-dogs  do  bark, 

An'  the  rooks  be  a-vled  to  the  ellms  high  an'  dark, 
An'  the  water  do  roar  at  mill. 

An'  the  flickeren  light  drough  the  window-peane 

Vrom  the  candle's  dull  fleame  do  shoot, 
An'  young  Jemmy  the  smith  is  a-gone  down  leane, 
A-playen  his  shrill-vaiced  flute. 

An'  the  miller's  man 
Do  zit  down  at  his  ease 

On  the  seat  that  is  under  the  cluster  o'  trees, 
Wi'  his  pipe  an'  his  cider  can. 


ROBERT  STEPHEN  HAWKER  551 

TRobert  Stepben  f>aw5er 

1803-1875 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  WESTERN  MEN 
(Written  in  1852) 

A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand ! 

A  merry  heart  and  true! 
King  James's  men  shall  understand 

What  Cornish  lads  can  do! 

And  have  they  fixed  the  where  and  when? 

And  shall  Trelawny  die? 
Here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  men 

Will  know  the  reason  why! 

Out  spake  their  Captain  brave  and  bold: 

A  merry  wight  was  he: — 
"  If  London  Tower  were  Michael's  hold, 

We'd  set  Trelawny  free! 

"  We'll  cross  the  Tamar,  land  to  land : 

The  Severn  is  no  stay : 
With  'one  and  all,'  and  hand  in  hand; 

And  who  shall  bid  us  nay? 

"  And  when  we  come  to  London  Wall, 

A  pleasant  sight  to  view, 
Come  forth !  come  forth !  ye  cowards  all : 

Here's  men  as  good  as  you. 

"  Trelawny  he's  in  keep  and  hold : 

Trelawny  he  may  die: 
But  here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  bold 

Will  know  the  reason  why !  " 


552  VICTORIAN  VERSE 


1809-1883 
(From  his  translation  of  The  Rubaiyat,  1859) 

VII. 

Come,  fill  the  Cup,  and  in  the  fire  of  Spring 
Your  Winter-garment  of  Repentance  fling: 

The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter  —  and  the  Bird  is  on  the  Wing. 

vm. 

Whether  at  Naishapur  or  Babylon, 
Whether  the  Cup  with  sweet  or  bitter  run, 

The  Wine  of  Life  keeps  oozing  drop  by  drop, 
The  Leaves  of  Life  keep  falling  one  by  one. 


IX. 

Each  Morn  a  thousand  Roses  brings,  you  say; 
Yes,  but  where  leaves  the  Rose  of  Yesterday? 

And  this  first  Summer  month  that  brings  the  Rose 
Shall  take  Jamshyd  and  Kaikobad  away. 


x. 

Well,  let  it  take  them !    What  have  we  to  do 
With  Kaikobad  the  Great,  or  Kaikhosru? 

Let  Zal  and  Rustum  thunder  as  they  will, 
Or  Hatim  call  to  Supper — heed  not  you. 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD  553 

XII. 

A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread — and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow! 


XIII. 

Some  for  the  Glories  of  This  World;  and  some 
Sigh  for  the  Prophet's  Paradise  to  come; 

Ah,  take  the  Cash,  and  let  the  Credit  go, 
Nor  heed  the  rumble  of  a  distant  Drum. 


XVII. 

Think,  in  this  batter'd  Caravanserai 

Whose  Portals  are  alternate  Night  and  Day, 

How  Sultan  after  Sultan  with  his  Pomp 
Abode  his  destin'd  Hour,  and  went  his  way. 


XXI. 

Ah,  my  Beloved,  fill  the  cup  that  clears 
TO-DAY  of  past  Regret  and  future  Fears: 

To-morrow! — Why,  To-morrow  I  may  be 
Myself  with  Yesterday's  Sev'n  thousand  Years. 


xxrv. 

Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may  spend, 
Before  we  too  into  the  Dust  descend; 

Dust  into  Dust,  and  under  Dust,  to  lie, 
Sans  Wine,  sans  Song,  sans  Singer,  and — sans  End! 


554  VICTOKIAN  VEKSE 

Sir  jfrancis  ^Hastings  Cbarles  H)ople 

1810-1888 
THE  PRIVATE  OF  THE  BUFFS 

(1866) 

Last  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs, 

He  jested,  quaiPd,  and  swore: 
A  drunken  private  of  the  Buffs, 

Who  never  look'd  before. 
To-day,  beneath  the  foeman's  frown, 

He  stands  in  Elgin's  place, 
Ambassador  from  Britain's  crown, 

And  type  of  all  her  race. 

Poor,  reckless,  rude,  low-born,  untaught, 

Bewilder'd,  and  alone, 
A  heart,  with  English  instinct  fraught, 

He  yet  can  call  his  own. 
Ay,  tear  his  body  limb  from  limb. 

Bring  cord,  or  axe,  or  flame: 
He  only  knows,  that  not  through  him 

Shall  England  come  to  shame. 

Far  Kentish  hop-fields  round  him  seem'd, 

Like  dreams,  to  come  and  go; 
Bright  leagues  of  cherry-blossom  gleam'd, 

One  sheet  of  living  snow; 
The  smoke,  above  his  father's  door, 

In  gray  soft  eddyings  hung: 
Must  he  then  watch  it  rise  no  more, 

Doom'd  by  himself,  so  young? 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  555 

Yes,  honour  calls ! — with  strength  like  steel 

He  put  the  vision  by. 
Let  dusky  Indians  whine  and  kneel; 

An  English  lad  must  die. 
And  thus,  with  eyes  that  would  not  shrink, 

With  knee  to  man  unbent, 
Unfaltering  on  its  dreadful  brink, 

To  his  red  grave  he  went. 

Vain,  mightiest  fleets,  of  iron  fram'd; 

Vain,  those  all-shattering  guns; 
Unless  proud  England  keep,  untam'd, 

The  strong  heart  of  her  sons. 
So,  let  his  name  through  Europe  ring — 

A  man  of  mean  estate, 
Who  died,  as  firm  as  Sparta's  king, 

Because  his  soul  was  great. 

TOUlliam  flDafeepeace  TTbacfeeras 

1811-1863 
AT  THE  CHURCH  GATE 

(From  Pendennis,  1849-1850) 

Although  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover: 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  Minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming: 
They've  hush'd  the  Minster  bell: 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell: 

She's  coming,  she's  coming! 


556  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid,  and  stepping  fast, 

And  hastening  hither, 
With  modest  eyes  downcast: 
She  comes — she's  here — she's  past- 
May  heaven  go  with  her ! 

Kneel,  undisturb'd,  fair  Saint! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly; 
I  will  not  enter  there, 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute 
Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait 
And  see  through  heaven's  gate 

Angels  within  it. 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY 
(From  Dr.  Birch  and  His  Young  Fi-iends,  1848-1849) 

The  play  is  done;  the  curtain  drops, 

Slow  falling  to  the  prompter's  bell: 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around,  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task; 

And,  when  he's  laughed  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that's  anything  but  gay. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  557 

One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends, 

Let's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme. 
And  pledge  a  hand  to  all  young  friends, 

As  fits  the  merry  Christmas  time. 
On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts, 

That  Fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play; 
Good  night!  with  honest  gentle  hearts 

A  kindly  greeting  go  alway! 

Good  night! — I'd  say,  the  griefs,  the  joys, 

Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page, 
The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age. 
I'd  say,  your  woes  were  not  less  keen, 

Your  hopes  more  vain,  than  those  of  men; 
Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 

At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 

I'd  say,  we  suffer  and  we  strive, 

Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys ; 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five, 

As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys. 
And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 
Pray  Heaven  that  early  Love  and  Truth 

May  never  wholly  pass  away. 

And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I'd  say,  how  fate  may  change  and  shift; 
The  prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool, 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift. 
The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall, 

The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown, 
The  knave  be  lifted  over  all, 

The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 


558  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave! 
\\  hy  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not  mine, 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave? 
We  bow  to  Heaven  that  will'd  it  so, 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all, 
That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow, 

That's  free  to  give,  or  to  recall. 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit: 

Who  brought  him  to  that  mirth  and  state? 
His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 

Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 
Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 

To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus? 
Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we'll  kneel, 

Confessing  Heaven   that  ruled  it  thus. 

So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life's  advance, 

Dear  hopes,  dear  friends,  untimely  killed ; 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance, 

And  longing  passion  unfulfilled. 
Amen !  whatever  fate  be  sent, 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent, 

And  whitened  with  the  winter  snow. 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part, 
And  bow  before  the  Awful  Will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart, 
Who  misses  or  who  wins  the  prize. 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can; 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise, 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 


COVENTRY  KERSEY  DIGHTON  PATMORE  559 

A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young! 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays) ; 
The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 

TJpon  the  first  of  Christmas  days: 
The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then: 
Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said, 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men. 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 
And  wish  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirth, 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth, 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still — 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth, 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 


Coventry  Ikersep  Diabton  ipatmore 

1823-1896 
THE  TOYS 

My  little  Son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes 
And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  wise, 
Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobeyM, 
I  struck  him,  and  dismiss'd 
With  hard  words  and  unkiss'd, 
His  Mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 
Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 
I  visited  his  bed, 
But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 
With  darken'd  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 
From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 
And  I,  with  moan, 
Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own; 


560  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 
He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 
A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-vein'd  stone, 
A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach 
And  six  or  seven  shells, 
A  bottle  with  bluebells 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with  care- 
ful art, 

To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 
So  when  that  night  I  pray'cU- 
To  God,  I  wept,  and  said: 
Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 
Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 
And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 
We  made  our  joys, 
How  weakly  understood, 
Thy  great  commanded  good, 
Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the  clay, 
Thou'lt  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 
"  I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness." 


THE  TWO  DESERTS 

Not  greatly  moved  with  awe  am  I 
To  learn  that  we  may  spy 
Five  thousand  firmaments  beyond  our  own. 
The  best  that's  known 

Of  the  heavenly  bodies  does  them  credit  small. 
View'd  close,  the  Moon's  fair  ball 
Is  of  ill  objects  worst, 
A    corpse    in    Night's     highway,    naked,    fire-scarr'd, 

accurst ; 

And  now  they  tell 

That  the  Sun  is  plainly  seen  to  boil  and  burst 
Too  horribly  for  hell. 


SYDNEY  THOMPSON  DOBELL  561 

So,  judging  from  these  t\w, 

As  we  must  do, 

The  Universe,  outside  our  living  Earth, 

Was  all  conceiv'd  in  the  Creator's  mirth, 

Forecasting  at  the  time  Man's  spirit  deep, 

To  make  dirt  cheap. 

Put  by  the  Telescope! 

Better  without  it  man  may  see, 

Stretch'd  awful  in  the  hush'd  midnight, 

The  ghost  of  his  eternity. 

Give  me  the  nobler  glass  that  swells  to  the  eye 

The  things  which  near  us  lie, 

Till  Science  rapturously  hails, 

In  the  minutest  water-drop, 

A  torment  of  innumerable  tails. 

These  at  the  least  do  live. 

But  rather  give 

A  mind  not  much  to  pry 

Beyond  our  royal-fair  estate 

Betwixt  these  deserts  blank  of  small  and  great. 

Wonder  and  beauty  our  own  courtiers  are, 

Pressing  to  catch  our  gaze, 

And  out  of  obvious  ways 

Ne'er  wandering  far. 


Ubompson  Dobell 

1824-1874 

KEITH  OF  RAVELSTON 
(From  A  Nuptial  Eve) 

The  murmur  of  the  mourning  ghost 
That  keeps  the  shadowy  kine, 

"  Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line !  " 


562  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Kavelston,  Ravelston, 

The  merry  path  that  leads 
Down  the  golden  morning  hill, 

And  thro'  the  silver  meads; 

Ravelston,  Ravelston, 

The  stile  beneath  the  tree, 
The  maid  that  kept  her  mother's  kine, 

The  song  that  sang  she! 

She  sang  her  song,  she  kept  her  kine, 

She  sat  beneath  the  thorn 
When  Andrew  Keith  of  Ravelston 

Rode  thro'  the  Monday  morn; 

His  henchmen  sing,  his  hawk-bells  ring, 

His  belted  jewels  shine! 
Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line! 

Year  after  year,  where  Andrew  came, 
Comes  evening  down  the  glade, 

And  still  there  sits  a  moonshine  ghost 
Where  sat  the  sunshine  maid. 

Her  misty  hair  is  faint  and  fair, 
She  keeps  the  shadowy  kine; 

Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line! 

I  lay  my  hand  upon  the  stile, 

The  stile  is  lone  and  cold, 
The  burnie  that  goes  babbling  by 

Says  nt*ught  that  can  be  told. 


SYDNEY  THOMPSON  DOBELL  563 

Yet,  stranger!  here,  from  year  to  year, 

She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine; 
Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line! 

Step  out  three  steps,  where  Andrew  stood — 

Why  blanch  thy  cheeks  for  fear  ? 
The  ancient  stile  is  not  alone, 

'Tis  not  the  burn  I  hear! 

She  makes  her  immemorial  moan, 

She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine; 
Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line! 


AMERICA 
(Poetical  Works,  1875) 

Nor  force  nor  fraud  shall  sunder  us !    O  ye 
Who  north  or  south,  on  east  or  western  land, 
Native  to  noble  sounds,  say  truth  for  truth, 
Freedom  for  freedom,  love  for  love,  and  God 
For  God;  O  ye  who  in  eternal  youth 
Speak  with  a  living  and  creative  flood 
This  universal  English,  and  do  stand 
Its  breathing  book;  live  worthy  of  that  grand 
Heroic  utterance — parted,  yet  a  whole, 
Far  yet  unsever'd, — children  brave  and  free 
Of  the  great  Mother-tongue,  and  ye  shall  be 
Lords  of  an  empire  wide  as  Shakespeare's  soul, 
Sublime  as  Milton's  immemorial  theme, 
And  rich  as  Chaucer's  speech,  and  fair  as  Spenser's 
dream. 


564  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

TKflUliam  Hllingbam 

1824-1889 

HOMEWARD  BOUND 
(From  Flower  Pieces  and  Other  Poems,  1888) 


Head  the  ship  for  England! 

Shake  out  every  sail ! 
Blithe  leap  the  billows, 

Merry  sings  the  gale. 
Captain,  work  the  reck'ning; 

How  many  knots  a  day? — 
Round  the  world  and  home  again. 

That's  the  sailor's  way! 

n. 

We've  traded  with  the  Yankees, 

Brazilians,  and  Chinese; 
We've  laughed  with  dusky  beauties 

In  shade  of  tall  palm-trees; 
Across  the  line  and  Gulf-Stream — 

Round  by  Table  Bay — 
Everywhere  and  home  again, 

That's  the  sailor's  way! 

in. 

Nightly  stands  the  North  Star 

Higher  on  our  bow; 
Straight  we  run  for  England; 

Our  thoughts  are  in  it  now. 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM  565 

Jolly  time  with  friends  ashore, 
When  we've  drawn  our  pay! — 

All  about  and  home  again, 
That's  the  sailor's  way! 

IV. 

Tom  will  to  his  parents, 

Jack  will  to  his  dear, 
Joe  to  wife  and  children, 

Bob  to  pipes  and  beer; 
Dicky  to  the  dancing-room, 

To  hear  the  fiddles  play; — 
Round  the  world  and  home  again, 

That's  the  sailor's  way ! 
Round  the  world  and  home  again, 

That's  the  sailor's  way! 

FOUR  DUCKS  ON  A  POND 

(From  the  same) 

Four  ducks  on  a  pond, 
A  grass-bank  beyond, 
A  blue  sky  of  spring, 
White  clouds  on  the  wing; 
What  a  little  thing 
To  remember  for  years — 
To  remember  with  tears ! 

HEATHER 

(From  the  same) 

Vast  barren  hills  and  moors,  cliffs  over  lakes, 
Great  headlands  by  the  sea — a  lonely  land! 
With  Fishers'  huts  beside  a  yellow  strand 

Where  wave  on  wave  in  foam  and  thunder  breaks, 


566  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Or  else  a  tranquil  blue  horizon  takes 

Sunlight  and  shadow.    Few  can  understand 

The  poor  folk's  ancient  tongue,  sweet,  simple,  grand. 

Wherein  a  dreamy  old-world  half  awakes. 

And  on  these  hills  a  thousand  years  ago 

Their  fathers  wander'd,  sun  and  stars  for  clock, 

With  minds  to  wing  above  and  creep  below; 

Heard  what  we  hear,  the  ocean's  solemn  shock, — 

Saw  what  we  see,  this  Heather-flow'r  aglow, 
Empurpling  league-long  slope  and  crested  rock. 


HALF-WAKING 

(From  the  same) 

I  .thought  it  was  the  little  bed 

I  slept  in  long  ago; 
A  straight  white  curtain  at  the  head, 

And  two  smooth  knobs  below. 

I  thought  I  saw  the  nursery  fire, 

And  in  a  chair  well-known 
My  mother  sat,  and  did  not  tire 

With  reading  all  alone. 

If  I  should  make  the  slightest  sound 

To  show  that  I'm  awake, 
She'd  rise,  and  lap  the  blankets  round, 

My  pillow  softly  shake; 

Kiss  me,  and  turn  my  face  to  see 

The  shadows  on  the  wall, 
And  then  sing  Rousseau's  Dream  to  me, 

Till  fast  asleep  I  fall. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  567 

But  this  is  not  my  little  bed; 

That  time  is  far  away; 
With  strangers  now  I  live  instead, 

From  dreary  day  to  day. 


Oeorcje  /iDerefcitb 

1828-1909 

JUGGLING  JERRY 

(From  Modern  Love  and  Poems  oftlie  English  Roadside,  1862) 
I. 

Pitch  here  the  tent,  while  the  old  horse  grazes : 

By  the  old  hedge-side  we'll  halt  a  stage. 
It's  nigh  my  last  above  the  daisies : 

My  next  leaf  11  be  man's  blank  page. 
Yes,  my  old  girl!  and  it's  no  use  crying: 

Juggler,  constable,  king,  must  bow. 
One  that  outjuggles  all's  been  spying 

Long  to  have  me,  and  he  has  me  now. 


n. 


We've  travelled  times  to  this  old  common: 

Often  we've  hung  our  pots  in  the  gorse. 
We've  had  a  stirring  life,  old  woman! 

You,  and  I,  and  the  old  grey  horse. 
Races,  and  fairs,  and  royal  occasions, 

Found  us  coming  to  their  call : 
Now  they'll  miss  us  at  our  stations: 

There's  a  Juggler  outjuggles  all! 


568  VICTOBIAN  VERSE 

III. 

Up  goes  the  lark,  as  if  a1!  were  jolly! 

Over  the  duck -pond  the  willow  shakes. 
Easy  to  think  that  grieving's  folly, 

When  the  hand's  firm  as  driven  stakes! 
Ay,  when  we're  strong,  and  braced,  and  manful, 

Life's  a  sweet  fiddle :  but  we're  a  batch 
Born  to  become  the  Great  Juggler's  han'f  ul : 

Balls  he  shies  up,  and  is  safe  to  catch. 


IV. 


Here's  where  the  lads  of  the  village  cricket: 

I  was  a  lad  not  wide  from  here : 
Couldn't  I  whip  off  the  bale  from  the  wicket  ? 

Like  an  old  world  those  days  appear ! 
Donkey,  sheep,  geese,  and  thatched  ale-house — 1  know 
them! 

They  are  old  friends  of  my  halts,  and  seem, 
Somehow,  as  if  kind  thanks  I  owe  them : 

Juggling  don't  hinder  the  heart's  esteem. 


v. 


Juggling's  no  sin,  for  we  must  have  victual : 

Nature  allows  us  to  bait  for  the  fool. 
Holding  one's  own  makes  us  juggle  no  little; 

But,  to  increase  it,  hard  Juggling's  the  rule. 
You  that  are  sneering  at  my  profession, 

Haven't  you  juggled  a  vast  amount? 
There's  the  Prime  Minister,  in  one  Session, 

Juggles  more  games  than  my  sins'll  count. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  569 

VI. 

I've  murdered  insects  with  mock  thunder: 

Conscience,  for  that,  in  men  don't  quail. 
I've  made  bread  from  the  bump  of  wonder: 

That's  my  business,  and  there's  my  tale. 
Fashion  and  rank  all  praised  the  professor: 

Ay !  and  I've  had  my  smile  from  the  Queen : 
Bravo,  Jerry!   she  meant:   God  bless  her! 

Ain't  this  a  sermon  on  that  scene? 


VII. 


I've  studied  men  from  my  topsy-turvy 

Close,  and,  I  reckon,  rather  true. 
Some  are  fine  fellows :  some,  right  scurvy : 

Most,  a  dash  between  the  two. 
But  it's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  makes  me 

Think  more  kindly  of  the  race: 
And  it's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  shakes  me 

When  the  Great  Juggler  I  must  face. 


vni. 

We  two  were  married,  due  and  legal : 

Honest  we've  lived  since  we've  been  one. 
Lord!  I  could  then  jump  like  an  eagle: 

You  danced  bright  as  a  bit  o'  the  sun. 
Birds  in  a  May-bush  we  were !  right  merry ! 

All  night  we  kiss'd,  we  juggled  all  day. 
Joy  was  the  heart  of  Juggling  Jerry! 

Now  from  his  old  girl  he's  juggled  away. 


570  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

IX. 

It's  past  parsons  to  console  us: 
•   No,  nor  no  doctor  fetch  for  me : 
I  can  die  without  my  bolus; 

Two  of  a  trade,  lass,  never  agree! 
Parson  and  Doctor! — don't  they  love  rarely, 

Fighting  the  devil  in  other  men's  fields! 
Stand  up  yourself  and  match  him  fairly : 

Then  see  how  the  rascal  yields ! 


I,  lass,  have  lived  no  gypsy,  flaunting 

Finery  while  his  poor  helpmate  grubs: 
Coin  I've  stored,  and  you  won't  be  wanting: 

You  sha'n't  beg  from  the  troughs  and  tubs. 
Nobly  you've  stuck  to  me,  though  in  his  kitchen 

Many  a  Marquis  would  hail  you  Cook ! 
Palaces  you  could  have  ruled  and  grown  rich  in, 

But  your  old  Jerry  you  never  forsook. 


xr. 


Hand  up  the  chirper!  ripe  ale  winks  in  it; 

Let's  have  comfort  and  be  at  peace. 
Once  a  stout  draught  made  me  light  as  a  linnet. 

Cheer  up!  the  Lord  must  have  his  lease. 
May  be — for  none  see  in  that  black  hollow — 

It's  just  a  place  where  we're  held  in  pawn, 
And,  when  the  Great  Juggler  makes  as  to  swallow, 

It's  just  the  sword  trick — I  ain't  quite  gone! 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  571 

XII. 

Yonder  came  smells  of  the  gorse,  so  nutty, 

Gold-like  and  warm :  it's  the  prime  of  May. 
Better  than  mortar,  brick  and  putty, 

Is  God's  house  on  a  blowing  day. 
Lean  me  more  up  the  mound;  now  I  feel  it: 

All  the  old  heath-smells!     Ain't  it  strange? 
There's  the  world  laughing,  as  if  to  conceal  it, 

But  He's  by  us,  juggling  the  change. 


XIII. 

I  mind  it  well,  by  the  sea-beach  lying, 

Once — it's  long  gone — when  two  gulls  we  beheld, 
Which,  as  the  moon  got  up,  were  flying 

Down  a  big  wave  that  sparked  and  swelled. 
Crack,  went  a  gun :  one  fell :  the  second 

Wheeled  round  him  twice,  and  was  off  for  new  luck : 
Wrhere  in  the  dark  her  white  wing  beckon'd: — 

Drop  me  a  kiss — I'm  the  bird  dead-struck! 


LUCIFER  IN  STARLIGHT 

(From  Poems  and  Lyrics,  1883) 

On  a  starred  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose. 
Tired  of  his  dark  dominion  swung  the  fiend 
Above  the  rolling  ball  in  cloud  part  screened, 
Where  sinners  hugged  their  spectre  of  repose. 
Poor  prey  to  his  hot  fit  of  pride  were  those. 
And  now  upon  his  western  wing  he  leaned, 
Now  his  huge  bulk  o'er  Afric's  sands  careened, 
Now  the  black  planet  shadowed  Arctic  snows. 
Soaring  through  wider  zones  that  pricked  his  scars 
With  memory  of  the  old  revolt  from  Awe, 


572  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

He  reached  a  middle  height,  and  at  the  stars, 
Which  are  the  brain  of  heaven,  he  looked,  and  sank. 
Around  the  ancient  track  marched,  rank  on  rank, 
The  army  of  unalterable  law. 

LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY 

(From  the  same) 

Under  yonder  beech-tree  single  on  the  green-sward, 

Couched  with  her  arms  behind  her  golden  head, 
Knees  and  tresses  folded  to  slip  and  ripple  idly, 

Lies  my  young  love  sleeping  in  the  shade. 
Had  I  the  heart  to  slide  an  arm  beneath  her, 

Press  her  parting  lips  as  her  waist  I  gather  slow, 
Waking  in  amazement  she  could  not  but  embrace  me : 

Then  would  she  hold  me  and  never  let  me  go? 

Shy  as  the  squirrel  and  wayward  as  the  swallow, 

Swift  as  the  swallow  along  the  river's  light 
Circleting  the  surface  to  meet  his  mirrored  winglets, 

Fleeter  she  seems  in  her  stay  than  in  her  flight. 
Shy  as  the  squirrel  that  leaps  among  the  pine-tops, 

Wayward  as  the  swallow  overhead  at  set  of  sun, 
She  whom  I  love  is  hard  to  catch  and  conquer, 

Hard,  but  O  the  glory  of  the  winning  were  she  won ! 

Lovely  are  the  curves  of  the  white  owl  sweeping 
Wavy  in  the  dusk  lit  by  one  large  star. 

Lone  on  the  fir-branch,  his  rattle-note  unvaried, 
Brooding  o'er  the  gloom,  spins  the  brown  eve- jar. 

Darker  grows  the  valley,  more  and  more  forgetting : 
So  were  it  with  me  if  forgetting  could  be  willed. 

Tell  the  grassy  hollow  that  holds  the  bubbling  well- 
spring, 

Tell  it  to  forget  the  source  that  keeps  it  filled. 


GEORGE  ELIOT  573 

Large  and  smoky  red  the  sun's  cold  disk  drops, 

Clipped  by  naked  hills,  on  violet  shaded  snow : 
Eastward  large  and  still  lights  up  a  bower  of  moonrise, 

Whence  at  her  leisure  steps  the  moon  aglow. 
Nightlong  on  black  print-branches  our  beech-tree 

Gazes  in  this  whiteness:  nightlong  could  I. 
Here  may  life  on  death  or  death  on  life  be  painted. 

Let  me  clasp  her  soul  to  know  she  cannot  die ! 

Could  I  find  a  place  to  be  alone  with  heaven, 

I  would  speak  my  heart  out :  heaven  is  my  need. 
Every  woodland  tree  is  flushing  like  the  dogwood, 

Flashing  like  the  whitebeam,  swaying  like  the  reed. 
Flushing  like  the  dogwood  crimson  in  October; 

Streaming  like  the  flag-reed  South- West  blown; 
Flashing  as  in  gusts  the  sudden-lighted  whitebeam: 

All  seem  to  know  what  is  for  heaven  alone. 


George  lEliot 

1819-1880 

"O  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE" 

(1867) 

Longum  illud  tempus,  quum  non  ero,  magu  me  movet,  quam  hoc 
exiguum. — Cicero,  ad  Att.,  XII.  18 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence:  live 

In  pulses  stirrM  to  generosity, 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like  stars, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search 

To  vaster  issues. 


574  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

So  to  live  is  heaven : 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world, 
Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  fail'd,  and  agoniz'd 
\\  ith  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 
A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child, 
Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolv'd; 
Its  discords,  quench'd  by  meeting  harmonies, 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 
That  sobb'd  religiously  in  yearning  song. 
That  watch'd  to  ease  the  burthen  of  the  world, 
Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 
And  what  may  yet  be  better, — saw  within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 
And  shap'd  it  forth  before  the  multitude, 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 
To  higher  reverence  more  mix'd  with  love, — 
That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 
Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 
Be  gather'd  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb, 
Unread  forever. 

This  is  life  to  come, 

Which  martyr'd  men  have  made  more  glorious 
For  us  who  strive  to  follow.    May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty, 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffus'd, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense! 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 


ALFRED  AUSTIN  575 

Blfrefc  Bustin 

1835- 

LONGING 

(From  Soliloquies  in  Song,  1882) 
I. 

The  hill  slopes  down  to  the  valley,  the  stream  rung 

down  to  the  sea, 
And  my  heart,  my  heart,  O  far  one!  sets  and  strains 

towards  thee. 
But  only  the  feet  of  the  mountain  are  felt  by  the  rim 

of  the  plain, 
And  the  source  and  soul  of  the  hurrying  stream  reach 

not  the  calling  main. 

H. 

The  dawn  is  sick  for  the  daylight,  the  morning  yearns 

for  the  noon, 
And  the  twilight  sighs  for  the  evening  star  and  the 

rising  of  the  moon. 
But  the  dawn  and  the  daylight  never  were  seen,  in  the 

self-same  skies, 
And  the  gloaming  dies  of  its  own  desire  when  the  moon 

and  the  stars  arise. 

in. 

The    Springtime   calls   to   the   Summer,   "  Oh,   mingle 

your  life  with  mine," 
And   Summer   to   Autumn   'plaineth  low,   "  Must   the 

harvest  be  only  thine?" 
But  the  daffodil  dies  when  the  swallow  comes,  ere  the 

leaf  is  the  blossom  fled; 
And  when  Autumn  sits  on  her  golden  sheaves,  then  the 

reign  of  the  rose  is  dead. 


576  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

IV. 

And  hunger  and  thirst,  and  wail  and  want,  are  lost  in 

the  empty  air, 
And  the  heavenly  spirit  vainly  pines  for  the  touch  of 

the  earthly  fair. 
And  the  hill  slopes  down  to  the  valley,  the  stream  runs 

down  to  the  sea, 
And  my  heart,  my  heart,  O  far  one!  sets  and  strains 

towards  thee. 

SONNETS 

WRITTEN    IN    MID-CHANNEL 

(From  the  same) 
I. 

Now  upon  English  soil  I  soon  shall  stand, 

Homeward  from  climes  that  fancy  deems  more  fair; 

And  well  I  know  that  there  will  greet  me  there 

No  soft  foam  fawning  upon  smiling  strand, 

No  scent  of  orange-groves,  no  zephyrs  bland. 

But  Amazonian  March,  with  breast  half  bare 

And  sleety  arrows  whistling  through  the  air, 

Will  be  my  welcome  from  that  burly  land. 

Yet  he  who  boasts  his  birthplace  yonder  lies, 

Owns  in  his  heart  a  mood  akin  to  scorn 

For  sensuous  slopes  that  bask  'neath  Southern  skies, 

Teeming  with  wine  and  prodigal  of  corn, 

And,  gazing  through  the  mist  with  misty  eyes, 

Blesses  the  brave  bleak  land  where  he  was  born. 

ii. 

And  wherefore  feels  he  thus  ?    Because  its  shore 
Nor  conqueror's  foot  nor  despot's  may  defile, 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  577 

But  Freedom  walks  unarmed  about  the  isle, 

And  Peace  sits  musing  beside  each  man's  door. 

Beyond  these  straits,  the  wild-beast  mob  may  roar, 

Elsewhere  the  veering  demagogue  beguile : 

We,  hand  in  hand  with  the  Past,  look  on  and  smile, 

And  tread  the  ways  our  fathers  trod  before. 

What  though  some  wretch,  whose  glory  you  may  trace 

Past  lonely  hearths  and  unrecorded  graves, 

Round  his  Sword-sceptre  summoning  swarms  of  slaves, 

Menace  our  shores  with  conflict  or  disgrace, — 

We  laugh  behind  the  bulwark  of  the  waves, 

And  fling  the  foam  defiant  in  his  face. 


/iDattbew  Hrnoto 

1822-1888 
TO  MARGUERITE 

(From  Switzerland,  1857) 

Yes !  in  the  sea  of  life  enisled, 

With  echoing  straits  between  us  thrown, 

Dotting  the  shoreless  watery  wild, 

We  mortal  millions  live  alone, 

The  islands  feel  the  enclasping  flow, 

And  then  their  endless  bounds  they  know. 

But  when  the  moon  their  hollows  lights, 
And  they  are  swept  by  balms  of  spring, 
And  in  their  glens  on  starry  nights, 
The  nightingales  divinely  sing; 
And  lovely  notes,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Across  the  sounds  and  channels  pour — 


578  VICTORIAN*  VERSE 

Oh!  then  a  longing  like  despair 

Is  to  their  farthest  caverns  sent; 

For  surely  once,  they  feel,  we  were 

Parts  of  a  single  continent! 

Now  round  us  spreads  the  watery  plain- 

Oh,  might  our  marges  meet  again ! 

Who  order'd,  that  their  longing's  fire 
Should  be,  as  soon  as  kindled,  cool'd? 
Who  renders  vain  their  deep  desire? — 
A  God,  a  God  their  severance  ruled! 
And  bade  betwixt  their  shores  to  be 
The  unplumb'd,  salt,  estranging  sea. 


ABSENCE 

In  this  fair  stranger's  eyes  of  grey 
Thine  eyes,  my  love !  I  see. 
I  shiver;  for  the  passing  day 
Had  borne  me  far  from  thee. 

This  is  the  curse  of  life !  that  not 
A  nobler,  calmer  train 
Of  wiser  thoughts  and  feelings  blot 
Our  passions  from  our  brain; 

But  each  day  brings  its  petty  dust 
Our  soon-choked  souls  to  fill, 
And  we  forget  because  we  must 
And  not  because  we  will. 

I  struggle  towards  the  light;  and  ye; 
Once-loug'd-for  storms  of  love! 
If  with  the  light  ye  cannot  be, 
I  bear  that  ye  remove. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  579 

I  struggle  towards  the  light — but  oh, 
While  yet  the  night  is  chill, 
Upon  time's  barren,  stormy  flow, 
Stay  with  me,  Marguerite,  still ! 

SELF-DEPENDENCE 

(From  Empedocles  on  Etna  and  Other  Poems,  1852) 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 

What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be, 

At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears  me 

Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 

O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send: 

"  Ye  who  from  my  childhood  up  have  calm'd  me, 

Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the  end ! 

"  Ah,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "  ye  stars,  ye  waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew; 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you, 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you !  " 

From  the  intense,  clear,  star-sown  vault  of  heaven, 

Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way, 

In  the  rustling  night-air  came  the  answer: 

"  Wouldst  thou  be  as  these  are  ?    Live  as  they. 

"  Unaffrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see, 
These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

"  And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining, 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silver'd  roll; 
For  se^f-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 


580  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

"  Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unregardful 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 
In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring. 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 

O  air-born  voice!  long  since,  severely  clear, 
A  cry  like  thine  in  mine  own  heart  I  hear: 
"  Resolve  to  be  thyself ;   and  know,  that   he 
Who  finds  himself,  loses  his  misery ! " 


DOVER  BEACH 

(From  New  Poems,  1867) 

The  sea  is  calm  to-night. 

The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 

Upon  the  straits; — on  the  French  coast  the  light 

Gleams  and  is  gone;  the  cliffs  of  England  stand. 

Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil  bay. 

Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night-air! 

Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 

Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanch'd  sand, 

Listen !  you  hear  the  grating  roar 

Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back,  and  fling, 

At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 

Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 

With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 

The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 

Sophocles  long  ago 

Heard  it  on  the  ^Egean,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery;  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought, 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  581 

The  sea  of  faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round  earth's  shore 
Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furl'd. 
But  now  I  only  hear 
Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar, 
Retreating,  to  the  breath 

Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edges  drear 
And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To  one  another!  for  the  world,  which  seems 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 

So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 

Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain ; 

And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 

Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight, 

Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 


SHAKSPEARE 

(From  The  Strayed  Reveller  and  Other  Poems,  1849) 

Others  abide  our  question.     Thou  art  free. 
We  ask  and  ask — Thou  smilest  and  art  still, 
Out-topping  knowledge.     For  the  loftiest  hill, 
Who  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty, 

Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwelling-place, 

Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 

To  the  foil'd  searching  of  mortality; 

And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sunbeams  know, 

Self-school'd,  self-scann'd,  self-honour'd,  self-secure, 

Didst  tread  on  earth  unguess'd  at. — Better  so! 


582  VICTOKIAN  VERSE 

All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure. 

All  weakness  which  impairs,  all  griefs  which  bow, 

Find  their  sole  speech  in  that  victorious  brow. 

WORLDLY  PLACE 

Even  in  a  palace,  life  may  be  led  well! 

So  spoke  the  imperial  sage,  purest  of  men, 

Marcus  Aurelius. — But  the  stifling  den 

Of  common  life,  where,  crowded  up  pell-mell, 

Our  freedom  for  a  little  bread  we  sell, 

And  drudge  under  some  foolish  master's  ken, 

Who  rates  us,  if  we  peer  outside  our  pen — 

Match'd  with  a  palace,  is  not  this  a  hell? 

Even  in  a  palace!    On  his  truth  sincere, 

Who  spoke  these  words,  no  shadow  ever  came; 

And  when  my  ill-school'd  spirit  is  aflame 

Some  nobler,  ampler  stage  of  life  to  win, 

I'll  stop,  and  say :  "  There  were  no  succour  here ! 

The  aids  to  noble  life  are  all  within." 

EAST  LONDON 

'Twas  August,  and  the  fierce  sun  overhead 

Smote  on  the  squalid  streets  of  Bethnal  Green, 

And  the  pale  weaver,  through  his  windows  seen 

In  Spitalfields,  look'd  thrice  dispirited; 

I  met  a  preacher  there  I  knew,  and  said : 

"  111  and  o'erworked,  how  fare  you  in  this  scene  ? " 

"  Bravely!  "  said  he;  "  for  I  of  late  have  been 

Much  cheer'd  with  thoughts  of  Christ,  the  living  bread." 

O  human  soul !  as  long  as  thou  canst  so 

Set  up  a  mark  of  everlasting  light, 

Above  the  howling  senses'  ebb  and  flow, 

To  cheer  thee,  and  to  right  thee  if  thou  roam, 

Not  with  lost  toil  thou  labourest  through  the  night! 

Thou  mak'st  the  heaven  thou  hop'st  indeed  thy  home. 


MATTHEW  AENOLD  583 

GEIST'S  GRAVE 

(January,  1881) 

Four  years ! — and  didst  thou  stay  above 
The  ground,  which  hides  thee  now,  but  four? 
And  all  that  life,  and  all  that  love, 
Were  crowded,  Geist!  into  no  more? 

Only  four  years  those  winning  ways, 
Which  make  me  for  thy  presence  yearn, 
Call'd  us  to  pet  thee  or  to  praise, 
Dear  little  friend!  at  every  turn? 

That  loving  heart,  that  patient  soul, 
Had  they  indeed  no  longer  span, 
To  run  their  course,  and  reach  their  goal, 
And  read  their  homily  to  man? 

That  liquid,  melancholy  eye, 
From  whose  pathetic,  soul-fed  springs 
Seem'd  surging  the  Virgilian  cry, 
The  sense  of  tears  in  mortal  things — 

That  steadfast,  mournful  strain,  consoled 

By  spirits  gloriously  gay, 

And  temper  of  heroic  mould — 

What,  was  four  years  their  whole  short  day? 

Yes,  only  four! — and  not  the  course 
Of  all  the  centuries  yet  to  come, 
And  not  the  infinite  resource 
Of  nature,  with  her  countless  sum 


584  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Of  figures,  with  her  fulness  vast 
Of  new  creation  evermore, 
Can  ever  quite  repeat  the  past, 
Or  just  thy  little  self  restore. 

Stern  law  of  every  mortal  lot ! 

Which  man,  proud  man,  finds  hard  to  bear, 

And  builds  himself  I  know  not  what 

Of  second  life  I  know  not  where. 

But  thou,  when  struck  thine  hour  to  go, 
On  us,  who  stood  despondent  by, 
A  meek  last  glance  of  love  didst  throw, 
And  humbly  lay  thee  down  to  die. 

Yet  would  we  keep  thee  in  our  heart — 
Would  fix  our  favourite  on  the  scene, 
Nor  let  thee  utterly  depart 
And  be  as  if  thou  ne'er  hadst  been. 

And  so  there  rise  these  lines  of  verse 

On  lips  that  rarely  form  them  now; 

While  to  each  other  we  rehearse : 

Such  ways,  such  arts,  such  looks  hadst  thou! 

We  stroke  thy  broad  brown  paws  again, 
We  bid  thee  to  thy  vacant  chair. 
We  greet  thee  by  the  window-pane, 
We  hear  thy  scuffle  on  the  stair; 

We  see  the  flaps  of  thy  large  ears 
Quick  raised  to  ask  which  way  we  go; 
Crossing  the  frozen  lake,  appears 
Thy  small  black  figure  on  the  snow! 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  585 

Nor  to  us  only  art  thou  dear 
Who  mourn  thee  in  thine  English  home; 
Thou  hast  thine  absent  master's  tear, 
Dropt  by  the  far  Australian  foam. 

Thy  memory  lasts  both  here  and  there. 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  long  as  we. 
And  after  that — thou  dost  not  care! 
In  us  was  all  the  world  to  thee. 

Yet,  fondly  zealous  for  thy  fame, 
Even  to  a  date  beyond  our  own 
We  strive  to  carry  down  thy  name, 
By  mounded  turf,  and  graven  stone. 

We  lay  thee,  close  within  our  reach, 
Here,  where  the  grass  is  smooth  and  warm, 
Between  the  holly  and  the  beech, 
Where  oft  we  watch'd  thy  couchant  form. 

Asleep,  yet  lending  half  an  ear 
To  travellers  on  the  Portsmouth  road; — 
There  choose  we  thee,  O  guardian  dear, 
Mark'd  with  a  stone,  thy  last  abode! 

Then  some,  who  through  this  garden  pass, 
When  we  too,  like  thyself,  are  clay, 
Shall  see  thy  grave  upon  the  grass, 
And  stop  before  the  stone,  and  say: 

People  who  lived  here  long  ago 

Did  by  this  stone,  it  seems,  intend 

To  name  for  future  times  to  know 

The  dachs-hound,  Geist,  their  little  friend. 


586  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  KENSINGTON  GARDENS 

(From  Empedodes  on  Etna  and  Other  Poems,  1852) 

In  this  lone,  open  glade  I  lie, 

Screen'd  by  deep  boughs  on  either  hand; 

And  at  its  end,  to  stay  the  eye, 

Those  black-crown'd,  red-boled  pine-trees  stand ! 

Birds  here  make  song,  each  bird  has  his, 

Across  the  girdling  city's  hum. 

How  green  under  the  boughs  it  is ! 

How  thick  the  tremulous  sheep-cries  come ! 

Sometimes  a  child  will  cross  the  glade 
To  take  his  nurse  his  broken  toy; 
Sometimes  a  thrush  flit  overhead 
Deep  in  her  unknown  day's  employ. 

Here  at  my  feet  what  wonders  pass. 
What  endless,  active  life  is  here! 
What  blowing  daisies,   fragrant  grass! 
An  air-stirr'd  forest,  fresh  and  clear. 

Scarce  fresher  is  the  mountain-sod 
Where  the  tired  angler  lies,  stretch'd  out. 
And,  eased  of  basket  and  of  rod, 
Counts  his  day's  spoil,  the  spotted  trout. 

In  the  huge  world,  which  roars  hard  by, 

Be  others  happy  if  they  can ! 

But  in  my  helpless  cradle  I 

Was  breathed  on  by  the  rural  Pan. 

I  on  men's  impious  uproar  hurl'd, 
Think  often,  as  I  hear  them  rave, 
That  peace  has  left  the  upper  world 
And  now  keeps  only  in  the  grave. 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH  587 

Yet  here  is  peace  for  ever  new ! 
When  I  who  watch  them  am  away, 
Still  all  things  in  this  glade  go  through 
The  changes  of  their  quiet  day. 

Then  to  their  happy  rest  they  pass! 
The  flowers  upclose,  the  birds  are  fed, 
The  night  comes  down  upon  the  grass, 
The  child  sleeps  warmly  in  his  bed. 

Calm  soul  of  all  things !  make  it  mine 
To  feel,  amid  the  city's  jar, 
That  there  abides  a  peace  of  thine 
Man  did  not  make,  and  cannot  mar. 

The  will  to  neither  strive  nor  cry, 
The  power  to  feel  with  others  give! 
Calm,  calm  me  more !  nor  let  me  die 
Before  I  have  begun  to  live. 


Brtbur  MuQb  Clouob 

1819-1861 
QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS 

(From  Ambarvalia,  1843) 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 
Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied, 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  sea* 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side: 


588  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

E'en  so — but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those,  whom  year  by  year  unchanged, 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel, 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered — 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed, 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared. 

To  veer,  how  vain !     On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks !     In  light,  in  darkness  too, 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true. 

But  O  blithe  breeze!  and  O  great  seas, 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought, 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare, — 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas! 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there. 


WITH   WHOM   IS   NO   VARIABLENESS,   NEITHER 
SHADOW  OF  TURNING" 

(From  the  same) 

It  fortifies  my  soul  to  know 
That,  though  I  perish.  Truth  is  so: 
That,  howsoe'er  I  stray  and  range, 
Whate'er  I  do,  Thou  dost  not  change. 
I  steadier  step  when  I  recall 
That,  if  I  slip  Thou  dost  not  fall. 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH  589 

SAY  NOT,  THE  STRUGGLE  NOUGHT  AVAILETH 

(From  the  same) 

Say  not,  the  struggle  nought  availeth, 
The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth, 

And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed, 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers, 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain, 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only, 

Where  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light, 

In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly, 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright. 

THE  STREAM  OF  LIFE 
(From  the  same) 

O  stream  descending  to  the  sea, 

Thy  mossy  banks  between, 
The  flow'rets  blow,  the  grasses  grow, 

The  leafy  trees  are  green. 

In  garden  plots  the  children  play, 

The  fields  the  labourers  till, 
And  houses  stand  on  either  hand. 

And  thou  descendest  still. 


590  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

O  life  descending  unto  death, 
Our  waking  eyes  behold, 

Parent  and  friend  thy  lapse  attend, 
Companions  young  and  old. 

Strong  purposes  our  minds  possess, 
Our  hearts  affections  fill, 

We  toil  and  earn,  we  seek  and  learn, 
And  thou  descendest  still. 

O  end  to  which  our  currents  tend, 

Inevitable  sea, 
To  which  we  flow,  what  do  we  know, 

\\  hat  shall  we  guess  of  thee  ? 

A  roar  we  hear  upon  thy  shore, 
As  we  our  course  fulfil; 

Scarce  we  divine  a  sun  will  shine 
And  be  above  us  still. 


Sames  TTbomson 

1834-1882 
(From  Sunday  up  the  River,  written  1865) 

Give  a  man  a  horse  he  can  ride, 

Give  a  man  a  boat  he  can  sail; 
And  his  rank  and  wealth,  his  strength  and  health 

On  sea  nor  shore  shall  fail. 

Give  a  man  a  pipe  he  can  smoke, 

Give  a  man  a  book  he  can  read; 
And  his  home  is  bright  with  a  calm  delight, 

Though  the  rooms  be  poor  indeed. 

Give  a  man  a  girl  he  can  love, 

As  I,  O  my  Love,  love  thee; 
And  his  hand  is  great  with  the  pulse  of  Fate, 

At  home,  on  land,  on  >ra. 


FREDERIC  WILLIAM  HENRY  MYERS  591 

(From  Sunday  at  Hampstead,  written  1863-1865) 

O  mellow  moonlight  warm, 
Weave  round  my  Love  a  charm; 
O  countless,  starry  eyes 
Watch  from  the  holy  skies; 
O  ever-solemn  night, 
Shield  her  within  thy  might: 

Watch  her,  my  little  one! 

Shield  her,  my  darling! 

How  my  heart  shrinks  with  fear, 
Nightly  to  leave  thee,  dear; 
Lovely  and  pure  within, 
Vast  glooms  of  woe  and  sin  : 
Our  wealth  of  love  and  bliss 
Too  heavenly-perfect  is: 

Good-night,  my  little  one! 

God  keep  thee,  darling! 


jfrefceric  TKnuifam 

1843-1901 
THE  INNER  LIGHT 

(From  Saint  Paul,  1867) 

Lo,  if  some  pen  should  write  upon  your  rafter 
MENE  and  MENE  in  the  folds  of  flame, 

Think  you  could  any  memories  thereafter 
Wholly  retrace  the  couplet  as  it  came? 

Lo,  if  some  strange  intelligible  thunder 
Sang  to  the  earth  the  secret  of  a  star, 

Scarce  could  ye  catch,  for  terror  and  for  wonder, 
Shreds  of  the  story  that  was  peal'd  so  far. 


592  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Scarcely  I  catch  the  words  of  His  revealing. 

Hardly  I  hear  Him,  dimly  understand, 
Only  the  Power  that  is  within  me  pealing 

Lives  on  my  lips  and  beckons  to  my  hand. 

Whoso  has  felt  the  Spirit  of  the  Highest 

Cannot  confound  nor  doubt  Him  nor  deny: 

Yea,  with  one  voice,  O  world,  though  thou  deniest, 
Stand  thou  on  that  side,  for  on  this  am  I. 

Rather  the  earth  shall  doubt  when  her  retrieving 
Pours  in  the  rain  and  rushes  from  the  sod, 

Rather  than  he  for  whom  the  great  conceiving 
Stirs  in  his  soul  to  quicken  into  God. 

Ay,   though   thou  then   shouldst   strike  him   from   his 
glory 

Blind  and  tormented,  madden'd  and  alone, 
Even  on  the  cross  would  he  maintain  his  story, 

Yes,  and  in  hell  would  whisper,  I  have  known. 


austin  Bobson 

1840- 
A  GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL 

(From  Old  World  Idylls,  1883) 

He  lived  in  that  past  Georgian  day, 
When  men  were  less  inclined  to  say 
That  "  Time  is  Gold,"  and  overlay 

With  toil  their  pleasure ; 
He  held  some  land,  and  dwelt  thereon, — 
Where,  I  forget, — the  house  is  gone; 
His  Christian  name,  I  think,  was  John,- 

His  surname.   Leisure. 


HENEY  AUSTIN  DOBSON  593 

Reynolds  has  painted  him, — a  face 
Filled  with  a  fine,  old-fashioned  grace, 
Fresh-coloured,  frank,  with  ne'er  a  trace 

Of  trouble  shaded; 
The  eyes  are  blue,  the  hair  is  drest 
In  plainest  way, — one  hand  is  prest 
Deep  in  a  flapped  canary  vest, 

\Yith  buds  brocaded. 

He  wears  a  brown  old  Brunswick  coat, 
With  silver  buttons, — round  his  throat, 
A  soft  cravat; — in  all  you  note 

An  elder  fashion, — 
A  strangeness,  which,  to  us  who  shine 
In  shapely  hats, — whose  coats  combine 
All  harmonies  of  hue  and  line, — 

Inspires  compassion. 

He  lived  so  long  ago,  you  see! 
Men  were  untravelled  then,  but  we, 
Like  Ariel,  post  o'er  land  and  sea 

With  careless  parting; 
He  found  it  quite  enough  for  him 
To  smoke  his  pipe  in  "  garden  trim," 
And  watch,  about  the  fish  tank's  brim, 

The  swallows  darting. 

He  liked  the  well-wheel's  creaking  tongue, — 
He  liked  the  thrush  that  stopped  and  sung, — 
He  liked  the  drone  of  flies  among 

His  netted  peaches; 
He  liked  to  watch  the  sunlight  fall 
Athwart  his  ivied  orchard  wall; 
Or  pause  to  catch  the  cuckoo's  call 

Beyond  the  beeches. 


594  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

His  were  the  times  of  Paint  and  Patch. 
And  yet  no  Ranelagh  could  match 
The  sober  doves  that  round  his  thatch 

Spread  tails  and  sidled; 
He  liked  their  ruffling,  puffed  content, — 
For  him  their  drowsy  wheelings  meant 
More  than  a  Mall  of  Beaus  that  bent, 

Or  Belles  that  bridled. 

Not  that,  in  truth,  when  life  began, 
He  shunned  the  flutter  of  the  fan; 
He  too  had  maybe  "  pinked  his  man  " 

In  Beauty's  quarrel ; 
But  now  his  "  fervent  youth  "  had  flown 
Where  lost  things  go;  and  he  was  grown 
As  staid  and  slow-paced  as  his  own 

Old  hunter,  Sorrel. 

Yet  still  he  loved  the  chase,  and  held 
That  no  composer's  score  excelled 
The  merry  horn,  when  Sweetlip  swelled 

Its  jovial  riot; 

But  most  his  measured  words  of  praise 
Caressed  the  angler's  easy  ways, — 
His  idly  meditative  days, — 

His  rustic  diet.   . 

Not  that  his  "  meditating  "  rose 
Beyond  a  sunny  summer  doze; 
He  never  troubled  his  repose 

With  fruitless  prying; 
But  held,  as  law  for  high  and  low, 
What  God  withholds  no  man  can  know, 
And  smiled  away  inquiry  so, 

Without  replying. 


HENRY  AUSTIN  DOBSON  595 

We  read — alas,  how  much  we  read ! 
The  jumbled  strifes  of  creed  and  creed 
With  endless  controversies  feed 

Our  groaning  tables; 
His  books — and  they  sufficed  him — were 
Cotton's  «  Montaigne,"  "  The  Grave  "  of  Blair, 
A  "  Walton  " — much  the  worse  for  wear — 

And  "^Esop's  Fables." 

One  more,—"  The  Bible."    Not  that  he 
Had  searched  its  pages  as  deep  as  we; 
No  sophistries  could  make  him  see 

Its  slender  credit ; 
It  may  be  that  he  could  not  count 
The  sires  and  sons  to  Jesse's  fount, — 
He  liked  the  "  Sermon  on  the  Mount," — 

And  more,  he  read  it. 

Once  he  had  loved,  but  failed  to  wed, 
A  red-cheeked  lass  who  long  was  dead; 
His  ways  were  far  too  slow,  he  said, 

To  quite  forget  her; 

And  still  when  time  had  turned  him  gray, 
The  earliest  hawthorn  buds  in  May 
Would  find  his  lingering  feet  astray, 

Where  first  he  met  her. 

"In  Caelo  Quies"  heads  the  stone 
On  Leisure's  grave, — now  little  known, 
A  tangle  of  wild-rose  has  grown 

So  thick  across  it; 
The  lt  Benefactions  "  still  declare 
He  left  the  clerk  an  elbow-chair, 
And  "12  Pence  Yearly  to  Prepare 

Christmas  Posset." 


596  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Lie  softly.  Leisure !  Doubtless  you 
With  too  serene  a  conscience  drew 
Your  easy  breath,  and  slumbered  through 

The  gravest  issue; 
But  we,  to  whom  our  age  allows 
Scarce  space  to  wipe  our  weary  brows, 
Look  down  upon  your  narrow  house, 

Old  friend,  and  miss  you! 


BEFORE  SEDAN 

(From  Vignettes  in  Rhyme,  1873) 

The  dead  futnd  clasped  a  letter." 

— SPECIAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 

Here  in  this  leafy  place 

Quiet  he  lies, 
Cold,  with  his  sightless  face 

Turned  to  the  skies; 
'Tis  but  another  dead; 
All  you  can  say  is  said. 

Carry  his  body  hence, — 
Kings  must  have  slaves; 

Kings  climb  to  eminence 
Over  men's  graves : 

So  this  man's  eye  is  dim; — 

Throw  the  earth  over  him. 

What  was  the  white  you  touched, 

There,  at  his  side? 
Paper  his  hand  had  clutched 

Tight  ere  he  died; — 
Message  or  wish,  maybe; — 
Smooth  the  folds  out  and  soe. 


HENRY  AUSTIN  DOBSON  597 

Hardly  the  worst  of  us 

Here  could  have  smiled! — 
Only  the  tremulous 

Words  of  a  child;— 
Prattle,  that  has  for  stops 
Just  a  few  ruddy  drops. 

Look.     She  is  sad  to  miss, 

Morning  and  night, 
His — her  dead  father's — kiss 

Tries  to  be  bright, 
Good  to  mamma,  and  sweet. 
That  is  all.    "Marguerite." 

Ah,  if  beside  the  dead 

Slumbered  the  pain ! 
Ah,  if  the  hearts  that  bled 

Slept  with  the  slain ! 
If  the  grief  died; — But  no; — 
Death  will  not  have  it  so. 


THE  DYING  OF  TANNEGUY  DU  BOIS 
(From  the  same) 

En  los  nidos  de  antano 
No  hay  pdjaros  hogailo. 

— SPANISH  PROVERB. 

Yea,  I  am  passed  away,  I  think,  from  this ; 

Nor  helps  me  herb,  nor  any  leechcraft  here, 
But  lift  me  hither  the  sweet  cross  to  kiss, 

And  witness  ye,  I  go  without  a  fear. 
Yea,  I  am  sped,  and  never  more  shall  see, 

As  once  I  dreamed,  the  show  of  shield  and  crest, 
Gone  southward  to  the  fighting  by  the  sea ; — 

There  is  no  bird  in  any  last  year's  nest! 


598  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Yea,  with  me  now  all  dreams  arc  done,  I  ween, 

Grown  faint  and  unremembered  ;  voices  call 
High  up,  like  misty  warders  dimly  seen 

Moving  at  morn  on  some  Burgundian  wall  ; 
And  all  things  swim  —  as  when  the  charger  stands 

Quivering  between  the  knees,  and  East  and  West 
Are  filled  with  flash  of  scarves  and  waving  hands;  — 

There  is  no  bird  in  any  last  year's 


Is  she  a  dream  I  left  in  Aquitaine?  — 

My  wife  Giselle,  —  who  never  spoke  a  word, 
Although  I  knew  her  mouth  was  drawn  with  pain, 

Her  eyelids  hung  with  tears;  and  though  I  heard 
The  strong  sob  shake  her  throat,  and  saw  the  cord 

Her  necklace  made  about  it;  —  she  that  prest 
To  watch  me  trotting  till  I  reached  the  ford;  — 

There  is  no  bird  in  any  last  year's  nest! 

Ah  !  I  had  hoped,  God  wot.  —  had  longed  that  she 

Should  watch  me  from  the  little-lit  tourelle, 
Me,  coming  riding  by  the  windy  lea— 

Me,  coming  back  again  to  her,  Giselle; 
Yea,  I  had  hoped  once  more  to  hear  him  call, 

The  curly-pate,  who,  rushen  lance  in  rest, 
Stormed  at  the  lilies  by  the  orchard  wall  ;  — 

There  is  no  bird  in  any  last  year's  nest! 

But  how,  my  Masters,  ye  are  wrapt  in  gloom  ! 

This  Death  will  come,  and  whom  he  loves  he  cleaves 
Sheer  through  the  steel  and  leather;  hating  whom 

He  smites  in  shameful  wise  behind  the  greaves. 
'Tis  a  fair  time  with  Dennis  and  the  Saints, 

And  weary  work  to  age,  and  want  for  rest, 
When  harness  groweth  heavy,  and  one  faints, 

With  no  bird  left  in  any  last  year's  nest! 


ARTHUR  WILLIAM  EDGAR  O'SHAUGHNESSY        599 

Give  ye  good  hap,  then,  all.  For  me,  I  lie 

Broken  in  Christ's  sweet  hand,  with  whom  shall  rest 

To  keep  me  living,  now  that  I  must  die;  — 
There  is  no  bird  in  any  last  year's  nest! 


Hrtbur  TKHilliam  Efccjar 

1844-1881 

ODE 
(From  Music  and  Moonlight,  1874) 

We  are  the  music  makers, 

And  we  are  the  dreamers  of  dreams, 
Wandering  by  lone  sea-breakers, 

And  sitting  by  desolate  streams;  — 
World-losers  and  world-forsakers, 

On  whom  the  pale  moon  gleams  { 
Yet  we  are  the  movers  and  shakers 

Of  the  world  for  ever,  it  se.ems. 

With  wonderful  deathless  ditties 
We  build  up  the  world's  great  cities, 

And  out  of  a  fabulous  story 

\Ve  fashion  an  empire's  glory: 
One  man,  with  a  dream,  at  pleasure, 

Shall  go  forth  and  conquer  a  crown; 
And  three  with  a  new  song's  measure 

Can  trample  a  kingdom  down. 

We,  in  the  ages  lying 

In  the  buried  past  of  the  earth, 
Built   Nineveh    with    our   sighing, 

And  Babel  itself  in  our  mirth; 
And  o'erthrew  them  with  prophesying 

To  the  old  of  the  new  world's  worth  ; 
For  each  age  is  a  dream  that  is  dying, 

Or  one  that  is  coming  to  birth. 


600^  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

A  breath  of  our  inspiration 
Is  the  life  of  each  generation ; 

A  wondrous  thing  of  our  dreaming 

Unearthly,  impossible  seeming — 
The  soldier,  the  king,  and  the  peasant 

Are  working  together  in  one, 
Till  our  dream  shall  become  their  present, 

And  their  work  in  the  world  be  done. 


They  had  no  vision  amazing 

Of  the  goodly  house  they  are  raising; 

They  had  no  divine  foreshowing 

Of  the  land  to  which  they  are  going : 
But  on  one  man's  soul  it  hath  broken, 

A  light  that  doth  not  depart ; 
And  his  look,  or  a  word  he  hath  spoken, 

Wrought  flame  in  another  man's  heart. 

And  therefore  to-day  is  thrilling 
With  a  past  day's  late  fulfilling; 

And  the  multitudes  are  enlisted 

In  the  faith  that  their  fathers  resisted, 
And,  scorning  the  dream  of  to-morrow, 

Are  bringing  to  pass,  as  they  may. 
In  the  world,  for  its  joys  or  its  sorrow, 

The  dream  that  was  scorned  yesterday. 

But  we,  with  our  dreaming  and  singing, 

Ceaseless  and  sorrowless  we! 
The  glory  about  us  clinging 

Of  the  glorious  futures  we  see, 
Our  souls  with  high  music  ringing: 

O  men !  it  must  ever  be 
That  we  dwell,  in  our  dreaming  and  singing, 

A  little  apart  from  ye. 


ALGEKNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  601 

For  we  are  afar  with  the  dawning 

And  the  suns  that  are  not  yet  high,  * 

And  out  of  the  infinite  morning 

Intrepid  you  hear  us  cry — 
How,  spite  of  your  human  scorning, 

Once  more  God's  future  draws  nigh, 
And  already  goes  forth  the  warning 

That  ye  of  the  past  must  die. 

Great  hail!  we  cry  to  the  comers 

From  the  dazzling  unknown  shore; 
Bring  us  hither  your  sun  and  your  summers, 

And  renew  our  world  as  of  yore ; 
You  shall  teach  us  your  song's  new  numbers, 

And  things  that  we  dreamed  not  before : 
Yea,  in  spite  of  a  dreamer  who  slumbers, 

And  a  singer  who  sings  no  more. 


Bloernon  Cbarles  Swinburne 

1837-1909 

CHORUS 

(From  Atalanta  in  Calydon,  1865) 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's  traces, 
The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 

Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 
With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain; 

And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous 

Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus, 

For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces, 
The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 


G02  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptying  of  quivers, 
.  Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light. 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers. 

With  a  clamour  of  waters,  and  with  might; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  thou  most  fleet, 
Over  the  splendour  and  speed  of  thy  feet; 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west  shivers, 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of  the  night. 

Where  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing  to  her, 
Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees,  and  cling  { 

O  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could  spring  to  her, 
Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that  spring! 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 

As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player; 

For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to  her. 
And  the  southwest-wind  and  the  west-wind  sing. 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over, 

And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins; 
The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins; 
And  time  remembered  is  grief  forgotten, 
And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten, 
And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 

Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 
Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  travelling  foot. 

The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year  flushes 
From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit; 

And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 

And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre, 

And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 
The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root. 


ALGERNON  CHAELES  SWINBURNE  603 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 
Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid, 
Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  delight 

The  MaBnad  and  the  Bassarid; 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  tree  divide, 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 

Over  her  eyebrows  hiding  her  eyes; 
The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 

Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs; 
The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its  leaves, 
But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 
To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 

The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies. 


CHORUS 
(From  the  same) 

We  have  seen  thee.  O  Love,  thou  art  fair;  thou  art 

goodly,  O  Love; 
Thy  wings  make  light  in  the  air  as  the  wings  of  a 

dove. 

Thy  feet  are  as  winds  that  divide  the  stream  of  the  sea ; 
Earth  is  thy  covering  to  hide  thee,  the  garment  of  thee. 
Thou  art  swift  and  subtle  and  blind  as  a  flame  of 

fire; 
Before   thee   the   laughter,   behind   thee   the   tears   of 

desire; 

And  twain  go  forth  beside  thee,  a  man  with  a  maid; 
Her  eyes  are  the  eyes  of  *a  bride  whom  delight  makes 

afraid ; 


604  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

As  the  breath  in  the  buds  that  stir  is  her  bridal  breath : 
But  Fate  is  the  name  of  her;  and  his  name  is  Death. 

For  an  evil  blossom  was  born 

Of  sea-foam  and  the  frothing  of  blood, 
Blood-red  and  bitter  of  fruit, 

And  the  seed  of  it  laughter  and  tears, 
And  the  leaves  of  it  madness  and  scorn : 
A  bitter  flower  from  the  bud, 
Sprung  of  the  sea  vithout  root, 

Sprung  without  graft  from  the  years. 

What  hadst  thou  to  do  being  born, 
Mother,  when  winds  were  at  ease, 
As  a  flower  of  the  springtime  of  corn, 

A  flower  of  the  foam  of  the  seas? 
For  bitter  thou  wast  from  thy  birth. 

Aphrodite,  a  mother  of  strife; 
For  before  thee  some  rest  was  on  earth, 

A  little  respite  from  tears, 
A  little  pleasure  of  life; 
For  life  was  not  then  as  thou  art, 

But  as  one  that  waxeth  in  years 
Sweet-spoken,  a  fruitful  wife; 

Earth  had  no  thorn,  and  desire 
No  sting,  neither  death  any  dart; 

What  hadst  thou  to  do  amongst  these, 

Thou,  clothed  with  a  burning  fire, 
Thou,  girt  with  sorrow  of  heart, 

Thou,  sprung  of  the  seed  of  the  seas 
As  an  ear  from  a  seed  of  corn, 

As  a  brand  plucked  forth  of  a  pyre, 
As  a  ray  shed  forth  of  the  morn, 

For  division  of  soul  and  disease, 
For  a  dart  and  a  sting  and  a  thorn? 
What  ailed  thee  then  to  be  born? 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  605 

Was  there  not  evil  enough, 
Mother,  and  anguish  on  earth 
Born  with  a  man  at  his  birth, 
Wastes  underfoot,  and  above 

Storm  out  of  heaven,  and  dearth 
Shaken  down  from  the  shining  thereof, 

Wrecks  from  afar  overseas 
And  peril  of  shallow  and  firth, 

And  tears  that  spring  and  increase 
In  the  barren  places  of  mirth, 
That  thou,  having  wings  as  a  dove, 
Being  girt  with  desire  for  a  girth, 
That  thou  must  come  after  these, 
That  thou  must  lay  on  him  love? 

Thou  shouldst  not  so  have  been  born: 
But  death  should  have  risen  with  thee, 
Mother,  and  visible  fear, 

Grief,  and  the  wringing  of  hands, 
And  noise  of  many  that  mourn ; 
The  smitten  bosom,  the  knee 
Bowed,  and  in  each  man's  ear 
A  cry  as  of  perishing  lands, 
A  moan  as  of  people  in  prison, 
A  tumult  of  infinite  griefs; 

And  thunder  of  storm  on  the  sands, 
And  wailing  of  wives  on  the  shore; 
And  under  thee  newly  arisen 

Loud  shoals  and  shipwrecking  reefs, 

Fierce  air  and  violent  light; 
Sail  rent  and  sundering  oar, 

Darkness,  and  noises  of  night; 
Clashing  of  streams  in  the  sea, 
Wave  against  wave  as  a  sword, 

Clamour  of  currents,  and  foam; 
Rains  making  ruin  on  earth; 


600  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Winds  that  wax  ravenous  and  roam 
As  wolves  in  a  wolfish  horde; 
Fruits  growing  faint  in  the  tree, 

And  blind  things  dead  in  their  birth : 
Famine,  and  blighting  of  corn, 
When  thy  time  was  come  to  be  born. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE 
(From  Laus  Veneris,  1866) 

Here,  where  the  world  is  quiet; 

Here,  where  all  trouble  seems 
Dead  winds'  and  spent  waves'  riot 

In  doubtful  dreams  of  dreams; 
I  watch  the  green  field  growing 
For  reaping  folk  and  sowing. 
For  harvest-time  and  mowing, 

A  sleepy  world  of  streams. 

I  am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter, 
And  men  that  laugh  and  weep; 
Of  what  may  come  hereafter 

For  men  that  sow  to  reap : 

I  am  weary  of  days  and  hours, 

Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers, 

Desires  and  dreams  and  powers 

And  every  thing  but  sleep. 

Here  life  has  death  for  neighbour, 

And  far  from  eye  or  ear 
Wan  waves  and  wet  winds  labour, 

Weak  ships  and  spirits  steer; 
They  drive  adrift,  and  whither 
They  wot  not  who  make  thither; 
But  no  such  winds  blow  hither, 

And  no  such  things  grow  here. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  607 

No  growth  of  moor  or  coppice, 

No  heather-flower  or  vine, 
But  bloomless  buds  of  poppies, 

Green  grapes  of  Proserpine, 
Pale  beds  of  blowing  rushes 
Where  no  leaf  blooms  or  blushes 
Save  this  whereout  she  crushes 

For  dead  men  deadly  wine. 

Pale,  without  name  or  number, 

In  fruitless  fields  of  corn, 
They  bow  themselves  and  slumber 

All  night  till  light  is  born ; 
And  like  a  soul  belated, 
In  hell  and  heaven  unmated, 
By  cloud  and  mist  abated 

Comes  out  of  darkness  morn. 


Though  one  were  strong  as  seven, 
He  too  with  death  shall  dwell, 

Nor  wake  with  wings  in  heaven, 
Nor  weep  for  pains  in  hell; 

Though  one  were  fair  as  roses, 

His  beauty  clouds  and  closes; 

And  well  though  love  reposes, 
In  the  end  it  is  not  well. 

Pale,  beyond  porch  and  portal. 

Crowned  with  calm  leaves,  she  stands 
Who  gathers  all  things  mortal 

With  cold  immortal  hands; 
Her  languid  lips  are  sweeter 
Than  love's  who  fears  to  greet  her 
To  men  that  mix  and  meet  her 
From  many  times  and  lands. 


608  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

She  waits  for  each  and  other, 
She  waits  for  all  men  born ; 
Forgets  the  earth  her  mother, 

The  life  of  fruits  and  corn; 

And  spring  and  seed  and  swallow 

Take  wing  for  her  and  follow 

\ .  here  summer  song  rings  hollow 

And  flowers  are  put  to  scorn. 

There  go  the  loves  that  wither, 

The  old  loves  with  wearier  wings; 
And  all  dead  years  draw  thither, 

And  all  disastrous  things; 
Dead  dreams  of  days  forsaken, 
Blind  buds  that  snows  have  shaken, 
Wild  leaves  that  winds  have  taken, 
Red  strays  of  ruined  springs. 

We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow 
And  joy  was  never  sure; 
To-day  will  die  to-morrow; 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure; 
And  love,  grown  faint  and  fretful, 
With  lips  but  half  regretful 
Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful 
Weeps  that  no  loves  endure. 

From  too  much  love  of  living, 
From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 

We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 
Whatever  gods  may  be 

That  no  life  lives  forever; 

That  dead  men  rise  up  never; 

That  even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  609 

Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken, 

Nor  any  change  of  light : 
Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken, 

Nor  any  sound  or  sight: 
Nor  wintry  leaves  nor  vernal. 
Nor  days  nor  things  diurnal; 
Only  the  sleep  eternal 

In  an  eternal  night. 


PASTICHE 

(From  Poems  and  Ballads,  1878) 

Now  the  days  are  all  gone  over 
Of  our  singing,  love  by  lover, 
Days  of  summer-coloured  seas 
Blown  adrift  through  beam  and  breeze. 

Now  the  nights  are  all  past  over 
Of  our  dreaming,  dreams  that  hover 
In  a  mist  of  fair  false  things, 
Nights  afloat  on  wide  wan  wings. 

Now  the  loves  with  faith  for  mother, 
Now  the  fears  with  hope  for  brother, 
Scarce  are  with  us  as  strange  words, 
Notes  from  songs  of  last  year's  birds. 

Now  all  good  that  comes  or  goes  is 
As  the  smell  of  last  year's  roses, 
As  the  radiance  in  our  eyes 
Shot  from  summer's  ere  he  dies. 

Now  the  morning  faintlier  risen 
Seems  no  god  come  forth  of  prison, 
But  a  bird  of  plume  plucked  wing, 
Pale  with  thought  of  evening. 


610  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Now  hath  hope,  outraced  in  running, 
Given  the  torch  up  of  his  cunning 
And  the  palm  he  thought  to  wear 
Even  to  his  own  strong  child-despair. 


2>ante  (Babriel  IRossetti 

1828-1882 

THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 
(Third  Version,  from  Poems,  1870) 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven ; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 
For  service  meetly  worn ; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseerned  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God^s  choristers; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  611 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.    .    .    Yet  now,  and  in  this  place, 
Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me — her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.  .  . 
Nothing :  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 


It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 
'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims, 

Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 
Their  heart-remembered  names; 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  "circling  charm; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 


612  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  world.     Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 


The  sun  was  gone  now;  the  curled  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf;  and  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together. 

(Ah  sweet!    Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 
Fain  to  be  barkened?     When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair?) 

"  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
"Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven? — on  earth. 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  prayM  '. 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid? 

"When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  EOSSETTI  613 

"  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 
Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God; 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud. 


"  We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  name  audibly. 

"  And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so, 
The  songs  I  sing  here;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow, 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know." 

(Alas!    We  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.    But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity 
The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee?) 

"  We  two,"  she  said,  "  will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 


614  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

"  Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

"  He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb : 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak: 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 

"  Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 
To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 

Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 
Bowed  with  their  aureoles: 

And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 
To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

"  There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me : — 

Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 
With  Love, — only  to  be, 

As  then  awhile,  forever  now 
Together,  I  and  he." 

She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said, 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, — 

"  All  this  is  when  he  comes."     She  ceased. 
The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  fill'd 

With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 
Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smil'd. 


DANTE  GABKIEL  EOSSETTI  615 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 

Was  vague  in  distant  spheres : 
And  then  she  east  her  arms  along 

The  golden  barriers, 
And  laid- her  face  between  her  hands, 

And  wept.     (1  heard  her  tears.) 


THE  SEA-LIMITS 
(From  the  same) 

Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime: 
Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible, — 
The  murmur  of  the  earth's  own  shell. 

Secret  continuance  sublime 

Is  the  sea's  end:  our  sight  may  pass 
No  furlong  further.     Since  time  was, 

This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet,  which  is  death's, — it  hath 

The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life, 

Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 
As  the  world's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath, 

Its  painful  pulse  is  in  the  sands. 

Last  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands, 
Gray  and  not  known,  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods; 
Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 

Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee: 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged  men 
Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again, — 

Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 


616  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strown  beach 
And  listen  at  its  lips :  they  sigh 
The  same  desire  and  mystery. 

The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech. 
And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 
Not  any  thing  but  what  thou  art: 

And  Earth,  Sea,  Man,  are  all  in  each. 

SONNET8 
SIBYLLA  PALM1FERA 

(For  a  Picture) 

Under  the  arch  of  Life,  where  love  and  death, 
Terror  and  mystery,  guard  her  shrine,  I  saw 
Beauty  enthroned;  and  though  her  gaze  struck  awe, 

I  drew  it  in  as  simply  as  my  breath. 

Hers  are  the  eyes  which,  over  and  beneath, 

The  sky  and  sea  bend  on  thee, — which  can  draw, 
By  sea  or  sky  or  woman,  to  one  law, 

The  allotted  bondman  of  her  palm  and  wreath. 

This  is  that  Lady  Beauty,  in  whose  praise 

Thy  voice  and  hand  shake  still, — long  known  to  thee 
By  flying  hair  and  fluttering  hem, — the  beat 
Following  her  daily  of  thy  heart  and  feet, 
How  passionately  and  irretrievably, 
In  what  fond  flight,  how  many  ways  and  days! 

SONNET  XIX 

SILENT  NOON 

(From  The  House  of  Life,  in  Ballads  and  Sonnets,  1881) 

Your  hands  lie  open  in  the  long  fresh  grass, — 
The  finger-points  look  through  like  rosy  blooms : 
Your   eyes   smile   peace.     The  pasture  gleams   and 
glooms 

'Neath  billowing  skies  that  scatter  and  amass. 


DANTE  GABKIEL  EOSSETTI  617 

All  round  our  nest,  far  as  the  eye  can  pass, 
Are  golden  kingcup-fields  with  silver  edge 
Where  the  cow-parsley  skirts  the  hawthorn-hedge. 

"Tis  visible  silence,  still  as  the  hour-glass. 

Deep  in  the  sun-searched  growths  the  dragon-fly 
Hangs  like  a  blue  thread  loosened  from  the  sky: — 

So  this  wing'd  hour  is  dropt  to  us  from  above. 
Oh!  clasp  we  to  our  hearts,  for  deathless  dower, 
This  close-companioned  inarticulate  hour 

When  twofold  silence  was  the  song  of  love. 

SONNET  LXIII 

INCLUSIVENESS 

The  changing  guests,  each  in  a  different  mood, 

Sit  at  the  roadside  table  and  arise: 

And  every  life  among  them  in  likewise 
Is  a  soul's  board  set  daily  with  new  food. 
What  man  has  bent  o'er  his  son's  sleep,  to  brood 

How  that  face  shall  watch  his  when  cold  it  lies? 

Or  thought,  as  his  own  mother  kissed  his  eyes, 
Of  what  her  kiss  was  when  his  father  wooed? 

May  not  this  ancient  room  thou  sit'st  in  dwell 
In  separate  living  souls  for  joy  or  pain  ? 
Nay,  all  its  comers  may  be  painted  plain 

Where  Heaven  shows  pictures  of  some  life  spent  well; 
And  may  be  stamped,  a  memory  all  in  vain, 

Upon  the  sight  pf  lidless  eyes  in  Hell. 

'SONNET  XCVII 

A   SUPERSCRIPTION 

Look  in  my  face;  my  name  is  Might-have-been; 

I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Farewell; 

Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead-sea  shell 
Cast  up  thy  Life's  foam-fretted  feet  between; 


618  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Unto  thine  eyes  the  glass  where  that  is  seen 

Which  had  Life's  form  and  Love's,  but  by  my  spell 
Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable, 

Of  ultimate  things  unuttered  the  frail  screen. 

Mark  me  how  still  I  am !     But  should  there  dart 
One  moment  through  thy  soul  the  .soft  surprise 
Of   that   winged   Peace   which   lulls   the   breath   of 
sighs, — 

Then  shalt  thou  see  me  smile,  and  turn  apart 

Thy  visage  to  mine  ambush  at  thy  heart 
Sleepless  with  cold  commemorative  eyes. 


Cbristina  (Beorgina  TRossetti 

1830-1894 

UP-HILL 

(From  Goblin  Market,  etc.,  1862) 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day? 

From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that  door. 


CHRISTINA  GEOEGINA  KOSSETTI  619 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak? 

Of  labour  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 


SYMBOLS 

(From  Devotional  Pieces) 

I  watched  a  rosebud  very  long 

Brought  on  by  dew  and  sun  and  shower, 
Waiting  to  see  the  perfect -flower; 

Then,  when  I  thought  it  should  be  strong, 
It  opened  at  the  matin  hour 

And  fell  at  even-song. 

I  watched  a  nest  from  day  to  day, 
A  green  nest  full  of  pleasant  shade, 
Wherein  three  speckled  eggs  were  laid: 

But  when  they  should  have  hatched  in  May, 
The  two  old  birds  had  grown  afraid 

Or  tired,  and  flew  away. 

Then  in  my  wrath  I  broke  the  bough 
That  I  had  tended  so  with  care, 
Hoping  its  scent  should  fill  the  air; 

I  crushed  the  eggs,  not  heeding  how 
Their  ancient  promise  had  been  fair: 

I  would  have  vengeance  now. 

But  the  dead  branch  spoke  from  the  sod, 
And  the  eggs  answered  me  again: 
Because  we  failed  dost  thou  complain! 

Is  thy  wrath  just?    And  what  if  God, 
Who  waiteth  for  thy  fruits  in  vain, 

Should  also  take  the  rod? 


G20  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

(From  Monna  Innominate,  in  A  Pageant  and  Otlter  Poems,  1881) 

"Amor  die  a  nulla  amato  amar  perdona." — DANTE. 
•  "Amor  m'addusse  in  si  gioiosa  spene." — PETRARCA. 

0  my  heart's  heart,  and  you  who  are  to  me 
More  than  myself  myself,  God  be  with  you, 
Keep  you  in  strong  obedience  leal  and  true 

To  Him  whose  noble  service  setteth  free, 

Give  you  all  good  we  see  or  can  foresee, 
Make  your  joys  many  and  your  sorrows  few, 
Bless  you  in  what  you  bear  and  what  you  do, 

Yea,  perfect  you  as  He  would  have  you  be. 

So  much  for  you ;  but  what  for  me,  dear  friend  ? 
To  love  you  without  stint  and  all  I  can 

To-day,  to-morrow,  world  without  an  end; 
To  love  you  much  and  yet  to  love  you  more, 
As  Jordan  at  his  flood  sweeps  either  shore; 

Since  woman  is  the  helpmeet  made  for  man. 

(From  the  same) 

" E  la  Sua  Volontade  e  nostra  pace." — DANTE. 

"Sol  con  questi  pensier,  con  altre  chiome." — PETRARCA. 

Youth  gone,  and  beauty  gone  if  ever  there 
Dwelt  beauty  in  so  poor  a  face  as  this; 
Youth  gone  and  beauty,  what  remains  of  bliss? 

1  will  not  bind  fresh  roses  in  my  hair, 

To  shame  a  cheek  at  best  but  little  fair, — 

-  Leave  youth  his  roses,  who  can  bear  a  thorn, — 
I  will  not  seek  for  blossoms  anywhere, 

Except  such  common  flowers  as  blow  with  corn. 
Youth  gone  and  beauty  gone,  what  doth  remain? 
The  longing  of  a  heart  pent  up  forlorn, 

A  silent  heart  whose  silence  loves  and  longs; 
The  silence  of  a  heart  which  sang  its  songs 
While  youth  and  beauty  made  a  summer  morn, 
Silence  of  love  that  cannot  sing  again. 


WILLIAM  MOEKIS  621 

(From  Later  Life,  in  the  same) 

Thou  Who  didst  make  and  knowest  whereof  we  are 

made, 

Oh  bear  in  mind  our  dust  and  nothingness, 
Our  wordless  tearless  dumbness  of  distress: 

Bear  Thou  in  mind  the  burden  Thou  hast  laid 

Upon  us,  and  our  feebleness  unstayed 

Except  Thou  stay  us :  for  the  long  long  race 
Which  stretches  far  and  far  before  our  face 

Thou  knowest, — remember  Thou  whereof  we  are  made. 

If  making  makes  us  Thine,  then  Thine  we  are; 
And  if  redemption,  we  are  twice  Thine  own : 

If  once  Thou  didst  come  down  from  heaven  afar 

To  seek  us  and  to  find  us,  how  not  save? 
Comfort  us,  save  us,  leave  us  not  alone, 

Thou  Who  didst  die  our  death  and  fill  our  grave. 


William  /iDorris 

1834-1896 

AN  APOLOGY 

(From  The  Earthly  Paradise,  1868-70) 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing, 
I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 
Or  make  quick-coming  death  a  little  thing, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years, 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  forget  your  tears, 
Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


622  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

.  But  rather,  when  aweary  of  your  mirth, 
From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh, 
And,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth, 
Grudge  every  minute  as  it  passes  by, 
Made  the  more  mindful  that  the  sweet  days  die — 
Remember  me  a  little  then  I  pray, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

The  heavy  trouble,  the  bewildering  care 
That  weighs  us  down  who  live  and  earn  our  bread, 
These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear; 
So  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered, 
Because  they,  living  not,  can  ne'er  be  dead, 
Or  long  time  take  their  memory  quite  away 
From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day. 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  born  out  of  my  due  time, 
Why  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked  straight? 
Let  it  suffice  me  that  my  murmuring  rhyme 
Beats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory  gate, 
Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 
To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay, 
Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 
At  Christmas-tide  such  wondrous  things  did  show, 
That  through  one  window  men  beheld  the  spring, 
And  through  another  saw  the  summer  glow, 
And  through  a  third  the  fruited  vines  a-row, 
While  still,  unheard,  but  in  its  wonted  way, 
Piped  the  drear  wind  of  that  December  day. 

So  with  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is, 
If  ye  will  read  aright,  and  pardon  me, 
\\  ho  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  623 

Midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea, 
Where  tossed  about  all  hearts  of  men  must  be; 
Whose  ravening  monsters  mighty  men  shall  slay, 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

PROLOGUE 

(From  the  same) 

Forget  six  counties  overhung  with  smoke, 

Forget  the  snorting  steam  and  piston  stroke, 

Forget  the  spreading  of  the  hideous  town; 

Think  rather  of  the  pack-horse  on  the  down, 

And  dream  of  London,  small,  and  white,  and  clean, 

The  clear  Thames  bordered  by  its  gardens  green; 

Think,  that  below  bridge  the  green  lapping  waves 

Smite  some  few  keels  that  bear  Levantine  staves, 

Cut  from  the  yew  wood  on  the  burnt-up  hill, 

And  pointed  jars  that  Greek  hands  toiled  to  fill, 

And  treasured  scanty  spice  from  some  far  sea,  , 

Florence  gold  cloth,  and  Ypres  napery, 

And  cloth  of  Bruges,  and  hogsheads  of  Guienne; 

While  nigh  the  thronged  wharf  Geoffrey  Chaucer's  pen 

Moves  over  bills  of  lading, — 'mid  such  times 

Shall  dwell  the  hollow  puppets  of  my  rhymes.  , 


O  June,  O  June,  that  we  desired  so, 
Wilt  thou  not  make  us  happy  on  this  day? 
Across  the  river  thy  soft  breezes  blow 
Sweet  with  the  scent  of  beanfields  far  away, 
Above  our  heads  rustle  the  aspens  gray, 
Calm  is  the  sky  with  harmless  clouds  beset, 
No  thought  of  storm  the  morning  vexes  yet. 


624  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

See,  we  have  left  our  hopes  and  fear  behind 
To  give  our  very  hearts  up  unto  thee; 
What  better  place  than  this  then  could  we  find 
By  this  sweet  stream  that  knows  not  of  the  sea, 
That  guesses  not  the  city's  misery, 
This  little  stream  whose  hamlets  scarce  have  names, 
This  far-off,  lonely  mother  of  the  Thames? 

Here  then,  O  June,  thy  kindness  will  we  take; 
And  if  indeed  but  pensive  men  we  seem, 
What  should  we  do?  thou  wouldst  not  have  us  wake 
From  out  the  arms  of  this  rare  happy  dream, 
And  wish  to  leave  the  murmur  of  the  stream, 
The  rustling  boughs,  the  twitter  of  the  birds, 
And  all  thy  thousand  peaceful  happy  words. 


L7NVOI 

(From  the  same) 

"  Death  have  we  hated,  knowing  not  what  it  meant ; 
Life  have  we  loved,  through  green  leaf  and  through 

sere, 

Though  still  the  less  we  knew  of  its  intent : 
The  Earth  and  Heaven  through  countless  year  on  year, 
Slow  changing,  were  to  us  but  curtains  fair 
Hung  round  about  a  little  room,  where  play 
Weeping  and  laughter  of  man's  empty  day. 

"  O  Master,  if  thine  heart  could  love  us  yet, 
Spite  of  things  left  undone,  and  wrongly  done, 
Some  place  in  loving  hearts  then  should  we  get, 
For  thou,  sweet-souled,  didst  never  stand  alone, 
But  knew'st  the  joy  and  woe  of  many  an  one — 
By  lovers  dead,  who  live  through  thee,  we  pray, 
Help  thus  us  singers  of  an  empty  day ! " 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  625 

Fearest  thou,  Book,  what  answer  thou  mayst  gain, 
Lest  he  should  scorn  thee,  and  thereof  thou  die? 
Nay,  it  shall  not  be. — Thou  mayst  toil  in  vain, 
And  never  draw  the  House  of  Fame  anigh; 
Yet  he  and  his  shall  know  whereof  we  cry, 
Shall  call  it  not  ill  done  to  strive  to  lay 
The  ghosts  that  crowd  about  life's  empty  day. 

Then  let  the  others  go!  and  if  indeed 
In  some  old  garden  thou  and  I  have  wrought, 
And  made  fresh  flowers  spring  up  from  hoarded  seed, 
And  fragrance  of  old  days  and  deeds  have  brought 
Back  to  folk  weary ;  all  was  not  for  nought. 
— No  little  part  it  was  for  me  to  play — 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


DRAWING  NEAR  THE  LIGHT 
(From  the  same) 

Lo,  when  we  wade  the  tangled  wood, 
In  haste  and  hurry  to  be  there, 
Nought  seem  its  leaves  and  blossoms  good, 
For  all  that  they  be  fashioned  fair. 

But  looking  up,  at  last  we  see 
The  glimmer  of  the  open  light, 
From  o'er  the  place  where  we  would  be: 
Then  grow  the  very  brambles  bright. 

So  now,  amidst  our  day  of  strife, 
With  many  a  matter  glad  we  play, 
When  once  we  see  the  light  of  life 
Gleam  through  the  tangle  of  to-day. 


626  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Eugene  Xee*1bamilton 

1845-1907 

SONNETS  * 

(From  Mimma  Bella,  1909) 
x. 

"Tis  Christmas,  and  we  gaze  with  downbent  head 
On  something  that  the  post  has  brought  too  late 
To  reach  thee,  Mimma,  through  the  narrow  gate, 
From  one  who  did  not  know  that  thou  art  dead: 

A  picture-book,  to  play  with  on  thy  bed; 

And  we,  who  should  have  heard  thee  laugh  and  prate 

So  busily,  sit  here  at  war  with  Fate, 

And  turn  the  pages  silently  instead. 

O  that  I  knew  thee  playing  'neath  God's  eyes, 

With  the  small  souls  of  all  the  dewy  flowers 

That  strewed  thy  grave,  and  died  at  Autumn's  breath; 

Or,  with  the  phantom  of  the  doll  that  lies 
Beside  thee  for  Eternity's  long  hours, 
In  the  dim  nursery  that  men  call  Death. 

XXIII. 

Do  you  recall  the  scents,  the  insect  whirr, 
\\here  we  had  laid  her  in  the  chestnut  shade? 
How  discs  of  sunlight  through  the  bright  leaves  played 
Upon  the  grass,  as  we  bent  over  her? 

*  Reprinted  from  Mimma  Bella,  by  permission  of  Duffield  &  Co. 


WILLIAM  WATSON  627 

How  roving  breezes  made  the  bracken  stir 

Beside  her,  while  the  bumble-bee,  arrayed 

In  brown  and  gold,  hummed  round  her,  and  the  glade 

Was  strewn  with  last  year's  chestnuts'  prickly  fur? 

There  in  the  forest's  ripe  and  fragrant  heat 

She  lay  and  laughed,  and  kicked  her  wee  bare  feet, 

And  stretched  wee  hands  to  grasp  some  woodland  bell; 

And  played  her  little  games;  and  when  we  said 
u  Cuckoo,"  would  lift  her  frock,  and  hide  her  head, 
Which  now,  God  knows,  is  hidden  but  too  well. 


William  Watson 

1858- 
THE  FIRST  SKYLARK  OF  SPRING  * 

Two  worlds  hast  thou  to  dwell  in,  Sweet, — 

The -virginal  untroubled  sky, 
And  this  vext  region  at  my  feet. — 

Alas,  but  one  have  I! 

To  all  "my  songs  there  clings  the  shade, 
The  dulling  shade,  of  mundane  care. 

They  amid  mortal  mists  are  made, — 
Thine,  in  immortal  air. 

My  heart  is  dashed  with  griefs  and  fears; 

My  song  comes  fluttering,  and  is  gone. 
O  high  above  the  home  of  tears, 

Eternal  Joy,  sing  on! 

*  From  The  Poems  of  William  Watson.     Copyright,  1905,  by  the  John 
Lane  Company. 


628  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Not  loftiest  bard,  of  mightiest  mind, 
Shall  ever  chant  a  note  so  pure, 

Till  he  can  cast  this  earth  behind 
And  breathe  in  heaven  secure. 

We  sing  of  Life,  with  stormy  breath 

That  shakes  the  lute's  distempered  string : 

We  sing  of  Love,  and  loveless  Death 
Takes  up  the  song  we  sing. 

And  born  in  toils  of  Fate's  control. 
Insurgent  from  the  womb,  we  strive 

With  proud  unmanumitted  soul 
To  burst  the  golden  gyve. 

Thy  spirit  knows  nor  bounds  nor  bars ; 

On  thee  no  shreds  of  thraldom  hang: 
Not  more  enlarged,  the  morning  stars 

Their  great  Te  Deum  sang. 

But  I  am  fettered  to  the  sod, 

And  but  forget  my  bonds  an  hour; 

In  amplitude  of  dreams  a  god, 
A  slave  in  dearth  of  power. 

And  fruitless  knowledge  clouds  my  soul, 
And  fretful  ignorance  irks  it  more. 

Thou  sing'st  as  if  thou  knew'st  the  whole, 
And  lightly  held'st  thy  lore! 

Somewhat  as  thou,  Man  once  could  sing, 
In  porches  of  the  lucent  morn, 

Ere  he  had  felt  his  lack  of  wing, 
Or  cursed  his  iron  bourn. 


WILLIAM  WATSON  629 

The  springtime  bubbled  in  his  throat, 
The  sweet  sky  seemed  not  far  above, 

And  young  and  lovesome  came  the  note; — 
Ah,  thine  is  Youth  and  Love ! 

Thou  sing'st  of  what  he  knew  of  old, 
And  dreamlike  from  afar  recalls; 

In  flashes  of  forgotten  gold 
An  orient  glory  falls. 

And  as  he  listens,  one  by  one 

Life's  utmost  splendours  blaze  more  nigh; 
Less  inaccessible  the  sun, 

Less  alien  grows  the  sky. 

For  thou  art  native  to  the  spheres, 
And  of  the  courts  of  heaven  art  free, 

And  carriest  to  his  temporal  ears 
News  from  eternity; 

And  lead'st  him  to  the  dizzy  verge, 
And  lur'st  him  o'er  the  dazzling  line, 

Where  mortal  and  immortal  merge, 
And  human  dies  divine. 


THE  GREAT  MISGIVING* 

"  Not  ours,"  say  some,  "  the  thought  of  death  to  dread ; 

Asking  no  heaven,  we  fear  no  fabled  hell: 
Life  is  a  feast,  and  we  have  banqueted — 

Shall  not  the  worms  as  well? 

*  From  The  Poems  of  William  Watson.     Copyright,  1905,  by  the  John 
Lane  Company. 


630  VICTOEIAN  VERSE 

"  The  after-silence,  when  the  feast  is  o'er, 

And  void  the  places  where  the  minstrels  stood, 

Differs  in  nought  from  what  hath  been  before, 
And  is  nor  ill  nor  good." 

Ah,  but  the  Apparition — the  dumb  sign — 
The  beckoning  finger  bidding  me  forego 

The  fellowship,  the  converse,  and  the  wine, 
The  songs,  the  festal  glow ! 

And  ah,  to  know  not,  while  with  friends  I  sit, 
And  while  the  purple  joy  is  passed  about, 

Whether  'tis  ampler  day  divinelier  lit 
Or  homeless  night  without; 

And  whether,  stepping  forth,  my  soul  shall  see 
New  prospects,  or  fall  sheer — a  blinded  thing! 

There  is,  O  grave,  thy  hourly  victory, 
And  there,  O  death,  thy  sting. 


SONNET  * 

I  think  the  immortal  servants  of  mankind, 

Who,  from  their  graves,  watch  by  how  slow  degrees 

The  World-Soul  greatens  with  the  centuries, 

Mourn  most  Man's  barren  levity  of  mind, 

The  ear  to  no  grave  harmonies  inclined, 

The  witless  thirst  for  false  wit's  worthless  lees, 

The  laugh  mistimed  in  tragic  presences, 

The  eye  to  all  majestic  meanings  blind. 

O  prophets,  martyrs,  saviours,  ye  were  great, 

All  truth  being  great  to  you :  ye  deemed  Man  more 

Than  a  dull  jest,  God's  ennui  to  amuse: 

The  world,  for  you,  held  purport :  Life  ye  wore 

Proudly,  as  Kings  their  solemn  robes  of  state; 

And  humbly,  as  the  mightiest  monarchs  use. 

*  From  The  Poems  of  William  Watson.     Copyright,  1905,  by  the  John 
Lane  Company. 


W.  E.  HENLEY  631 

m.  JB.  Denies 

1849-1903 
TO  R.  T.  H.  B. 

(Written  1875) 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
Black  as  the  Pit  from  pole  to  pole, 

I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 

In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud. 

Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  Horror  of  the  shade, 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds,  and  shall  find,  me  unafraid. 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 

I  am  the  master  of  my  fate: 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 

TO  H.  B.  M.  W. 

Where  forlorn  sunsets  flare  and  fade 

On  desolate  sea  and  lonely  sand, 
Out  of  the  silence  and  the  shade 

What  is  the  voice  of  strange  command 
Calling  you  still,  as  friend  calls  friend 

With  love  that  cannot  brook  delay, 
To  rise  and  follow  the  ways  that  wend 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away? 


632  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Hark  in  the  city,  street  on  street 

A  roaring  reach  of  death  and  life, 
Of  vortices  that  clash  and  fleet 

And  ruin  in  appointed  strife, 
Hark  to  it  calling,  calling  clear, 

Calling  until  you  cannot  stay 
From  dearer  things  than  your  own  most  dear 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

Out  of  the  sound  of  the  ebb-and-flow, 

Out  of  the  sight  of  lamp  and  star, 
It  calls  you  where  the  good  winds  blow, 

And  the  unchanging  meadows  are: 
From  faded  hopes  and  hopes  agleam, 

It  calls  you,  calls  you  night  and  day 
Beyond  the  dark  into  the  dream 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 


SONG 
(Written  1876) 

Your  heart  has  trembled  to  my  tongue, 

Your  hands  in  mine  have  lain, 
Your  thought  to  me  has  leaned  and  clung, 
Again  and  yet  again, 

My  dear, 
Again  and  yet  again. 

Now  die  the  dream,  or  come  the  wife, 

The  past  is  not  in  vain, 
For  wholly  as  it  was  your  life 
Can  never  be  again, 

My  dear, 
Can  never  be  again. 


B.  L.  STEVENSON  633 

1R.  X.  Stevenson 

1850-1894 

A  SONG  OF  THE  ROAD 
(From  Underwoods,  1887) 

The  gauger  walked  with  willing  foot, 
And  aye  the  gauger  played  the  flute; 
And  what  should  Master  Gauger  play 
But  Over  the  hills  and  far  away? 

Whene'er  I  buckle  on  my  pack 
And  foot  it  gaily  in  the  track 

0  pleasant  gauger,  long  since  dead, 

1  hear  you  fluting  on  ahead. 

You  go  with  me  the  self -same  way — 
The  self -same  air  for  me  you  play; 
For  I  do  think  and  so  do  you 
It  is  the  tune  to  travel  to. 

For  who  would  gravely  set  his  face 
To  go  to  this  or  t'other  place? 
There's  nothing  under  heav'n  so  blue 
That's  fairly  worth  the  travelling  to. 

On  every  hand  the  roads  begin, 
And  people  walk  with  zeal  therein; 
But  wheresoe'er  the  highways  tend, 
Be  sure  there's  nothing  at  the  end. 

Then  follow  you,  wherever  hie 
The  travelling  mountains  of  the  sky. 
Or  let  the  streams  of  civil  mode 
Direct  your  choice  upon  a  road; 


634  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

For  one  and  all,  or  high  or  low, 
Will  lead  you  where  you  wish  to  go; 
And  one  and  all  go  night  and  day 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away! 


THE  CELESTIAL  SURGEON 
(From  the  same) 

If  I  have  faltered  more  or  less 
In  my  great  task  of  happiness; 
If  I  have  moved  among  my  race 
And  shown  no  glorious  morning  face; 
If  beams  from  happy  human  eyes 
Have  moved  me  not;  if  morning  skies, 
Books,  and  my  food,  and  summer  rain 
Knocked  on  my  sullen  heart  in  vain : — 
Lord,  thy  most  pointed  pleasure  take 
And  stab  my  spirit  broad  awake; 
Or,  Lord,  if  too  obdurate  I, 
Choose  thou,  before  that  spirit  die, 
A  piercing  pain,  a  killing  sin, 
And  to  my  dead  heart  run  them  in ! 


THE  COUNTERBLAST— 1886 
(From  the  same) 

My  bonny  man,  the  warld,  it's  true, 
Was  made  for  neither  me  nor  you ; 
It's  just  a  place  to  warstle  through, 

As  Job  confessed  o't; 
And  aye  the  best  that  we'll  can  do 

Is  mak  the  best  o't. 


E.  L.  STEVENSON  635 

There's  rowth  o'  wrang,  I'm  free  to  say: 
The  simmer  brunt,  the  winter  blae, 
The  face  of  earth  a'  fyled  wi'  clay 

An'  dour  wi'  chuckies, 
An'  life  a  rough  an'  land'art  play 

For  country  buckies. 


An'  food's  anither  name  for  clart; 
An'  beasts  an'  brambles  bite  an'  scart; 
An'  what  would  WE  be  like,  my  heart ! 

If  bared  o'  claethin' ? 
— Aweel,  I  cannae  mend  your  cart : 

It's  that  or  naethin'. 

A  feck  o'  folk  frae  first  to  last 

Have  through  this  queer  experience  passed; 

Twa-three,  I  ken,  just  damn  an'  blast 

The  hale  transaction; 
But  twa-three  ithers,  east  an'  wast, 

Fand  satisfaction. 

Whaur  braid  the  briery  muirs  expand, 
A  waefu'  an'  a  weary  land, 
The  bumblebees,  a  gowden  band, 

Are  blithely  hingin'; 
An'  there  the  canty  wanderer  fand 

The  laverock  singin'. 

Trout  in  the  burn  grow  great  as  herr'n ; 
The  simple  sheep  can  find  their  f air'n' ; 
The  wind  blaws  clean  about  the  cairn 

Wi'  caller  air; 
The  muircock  an'  the  barefit  bairn 

Are  happy  there. 


636  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Sic-like  the  howes  o'  life  to  some : 

Green  loans  whaur  they  ne'er  fash  their  thumb, 

But  mark  the  muckle  winds  that  come, 

Soopin'  an'  cool, 
Or  hear  the  powrin'  burnie  drum 

In  the  shilfa's  pool. 

The  evil  wi'  the  guid  they  tak ; 
They  ca'  a  gray  thing  gray,  no  black; 
To  a  steigh  brae,  a  stubborn  back 

Addressin'  daily; 
An'  up  the  rude,  unbieldy  track 

O'  life,  gang  gaily. 

What  you  would  like's  a  palace  ha', 
Or  Sinday  parlour  dink  an'  braw 
Wi'  a'  things  ordered  in  a  raw 

By  denty  leddies. 
Weel,  than,  ye  cannae  hae't :  that's  a' 

That  to  be  said  is. 


An'  since  at  life  ye've  ta'en  the  grue, 
An'  winnae  blithely  hirsle  through, 
Ye've  fund  the  very  thing  to  do — 

That's  to  drink  speerit; 
An'  shiine  we'll  hear  the  last  o'  you — 

An'  blithe  to  hear  it ! 

The  shoon  ye  coft,  the  life  ye  lead,' 
Ithers  will  heir  when  aince  ye're  deid; 
They'll  heir  your  tasteless  bite  o'  breid, 

An'  find  it  sappy; 
They'll  to  your  dulefii'  house  succeed, 

An'  there  be  happy. 


R.  L.  STEVENSON  637 

As  whan  a  glum  an'  fractious  wean 
Has  sat  an'  sullened  by  his  lane 
Till,  wi'  a  rowstin'  skelp,  he's  taen 

An'  shoo'd  to  bed — 
The  ither  bairns  a'  fa'  to  play'n', 

As  gleg's  a  gled. 


A  LAD  THAT  IS  GONE 

(From  the  same) 

Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone, 

Say,  could  that  lad  be  I? 
Merry  of  soul  he  sailed  on  a  day 

Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 

Mull  was  astern,  Rum  on  the  port, 
Egg  on  the  starboard  bow; 

Glory  of  youth  glowed  in  his  soul: 
Where  is  that  glory  now? 

Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone, 

Say,  could  that  lad  be  I  ? 
Merry  of  soul  he  sailed  on  a  day 

Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 

Give  me  again  all  that  was  there, 
Give  me  the  sun  that  shone! 

Give  me  the  eyes,  give  me  the  soul, 
Give  me  the  lad  that's  gone! 

Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone, 

Say,  could  that  lad  be  I? 
Merry  of  soul  he  sailed  on  a  day 

Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 


638  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Billow  and  breeze,  islands  and  seas, 
Mountains  of  rain  and  sun, 

All  that  was  good,  all  that  was  fair, 
All  that  was  me  is  gone. 


REQUIEM 

(From  the  same) 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


mewbolt 

1862- 
HOPE  THE  HORN-BLOWER* 

"  Hark  ye,  hark  to  the  winding  horn ; 
Sluggards,  awake,  and  front  the  morn ! 
Hark  ye,  hark  to  the  winding  horn ; 

The  sun's  on  meadow  and  mill. 
Follow  me,  hearts  that  love  the  chase; 
Follow  me,  feet  that  keep  the  pace: 
Stirrup  to  stirrup  we  ride,  we  ride, 

We  ride  by  moor  and  hill." 

*  Reprinted   by  permission  from   Newbolt's  The  Sailing  of  the  Long 
Ships.    Copyright,  1902,  by  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 


HENEY  JOHN  NEWBOLT 

Huntsman,  huntsman,  whither  away? 
What  is  the  quarry  afoot  to-day? 
Huntsman,  huntsman,  whither  away, 

And  what  the  game  ye  kill? 
Is  it  the  deer,  that  men  may  dine? 
Is  it  the  wolf  that  tears  the  kine  ? 
What  is  the  race  ye  ride,  ye  ride, 

Ye  ride  by  moor  and  hill? 

"  Ask  not  yet  till  the  day  be  dead 
What  is  the  game  that's  forward  fled, 
Ask  not  yet  till  the  day  be  dead 

The  game  we  follow  still. 
An  echo  it  may  be,  floating  past; 
A  shadow  it  may  be,  fading  fast: 
Shadow  or  echo,  we  ride,  we  ride, 

We  ride  by  moor  and  hill." 

WHEN  I  REMEMBER* 

When  I  remember  that  the  day  will  come 
For  this  our  love  to  quit  his  land  of  birth, 
And  bid  farewell  to  all  the  ways  of  earth 

With  lips  that  must  for  evermore  be  dumb, 

Then  creep  I  silent  from  the  stirring  hum, 
And  shut  away  the  music  and  the  mirth, 
And  reckon  up  what  may  be  left  of  worth 

When  hearts  are  cold  and  love's  own  body  numb. 

Something  there  must  be  that  I  know  not  here 
Or  know  too  dimly  through  the  symbol  dear; 

Some  touch,  some  beauty,  only  guessed  by  this 
If  He  that  made  us  loves,  it  shall  replace, 
Beloved,  even  the  vision  of  thy  face 

And  deep  communion  of  thine  inmost  kiss. 

*  Reprinted  by  permission   from   Newbolt's   The  Sailing  of  the 
Ships.    Copyright,  1902,  by  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 


640  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

THE  ONLY  SON* 

O  bitter  wind  toward  the  sunset  blowing, 

What  of  the  dales  to-night? 
In  yonder  gray  old  hall  what  fires  are  glowing, 

\\  hat  ring  of  fes.tal  light  ? 

"In  the  great  window  as  the  day  icas  dwindling 

I  saw  an  old  man  stand; 
His  head,  was  proudly  held  and  his  eyes  kindling, 

But  the  list  shook  in  his  hand." 

O  wind  of  twilight,  was  there  no  word  uttered, 

No  sound  of  joy  or  wail? 
"  A  great  fight  and  a  good  death,'  he  muttered; 

'Trust  him,  he  would  not  fail.'" 

What  of  the  chamber  dark  where  she  was  lying 

For  whom  all  life  is  done  ? 
"  Within  her  heart  she  rocks  a  dead  child,  crying 

'My  son,  my  little  son.'" 


1865- 

A  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND  WEST 
(From  Macmillan's  Magazine,  December,  1889) 

Kainal  is  out  with  twenty  men  to  raise  the  Border  side, 
And  he   has   lifted   the   Colonel's   mare,    that    is    the 
Colonel's  pride: 

*  Reprinted  by  permission  from  Newbolt's   The  Saving  oj  the  Long 
Ships.    Copyright,  1902,  by  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 


RUDYAED  KIPLING  641 

He  has  lifted  her  out  of  the  stable-door  between  the 

dawn  and  the  day, 
And  turned  the  calkins  upon  her  feet,  and  ridden  her 

far  away. 
Then  up  and  spoke  the  Colonel's  son  that  led  a  troop 

of  the  Guides : 
"  Is  there  never  a  man  of  all  my  men  can  say  vhere 

Kamal  hides? " 
Then  up  and  spoke  Mahommed  Khan,  the  son  of  the 

Ressaldar, 
"  If  ye  know  the  track  of  the  morning-mist,  ye  know 

where  his  pickets  are. 
"  At  dusk  he  harries  the  Abazai — at  dawn  he  is  into 

Bonair — 
"•  But  he  must  go  by  Fort  Monroe  to  his  own  place  to 

fare, 
"  So  if  ye  gallop  to  Fort  Monroe  as  fast  as  a  bird  can 

fly, 
"  By  the  favour  of  God  ye  may  cut  him  off  ere  he  win 

to  the  Tongue  of  Jagai. 
"  But  if  he  be  passed  the  Tongue  of  Jagai,  right  swiftly 

turn  ye  then, 
"  For  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  that  grisly  plain 

is  sown  with  Kamal's  men." 
The   Colonel's   son    has   taken    a   horse,    and    a   raw 

rough  dun  was  he, 
With  the  mouth  of  a  bell  and  the  heart  of  Hell  and  the 

head  of  the  gallows-tree. 
The  Colonel's  son  to  the  Fort  has  won,  they  bid  him 

stay  to  eat — 
Who  rides  at  the  tail  of  a  Border  thief,  he  sits  not  long 

at  his  meat. 
He's  up  and  away  from  Fort  Monroe  as  fast  as  he 

can  fly, 
Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  in  the  gut  of 

the  Tongue  of  Jagai, 


642  VICTOKIAN  VERSE 

Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  with  Kamal  upon 

her  back, 
And  when  he  could  spy  the  white  of  her  eye,  he  made 

the  pistol  crack. 
He  has  fired  once,  he  has  fired  twice,  but  the  whistling 

ball  went  wide. 
"  Ye  shoot  like  a  soldier,"  Kamal  said.     '"'  Show  now  if 

ye  can  ride." 

It's  up  and  over  the  tongue  of  Jagai,  as  blown  dust- 
devils  go, 
The  dun  he  fled  like  a  stag  of  ten,  but  the  mare  like 

a  barren  doe. 
The  dun  he  leaned  against  the  bit  and  slugged  his  head 

above, 
But  the  red-mare  played  with  the  snaffle-bars  as  a  lady 

plays  with  a  glove. 
They  have  ridden  the  low  moon  out  of  the  sky,  their 

hoofs  drum  up  the  dawn, 
The  dun  he  went  like  a  wounded  bull,  but  the  mare  like 

a  new-roused  fawn. 
The  dun  he  fell  at  a  water-course — in  a  woful  heap  fell 

he,— 
And  Kamal  has  turned  the  red-mare  back,  and  pulled 

the  rider  free. 
He  has  knocked  the  pistol  out  of  his  hand — small  room 

was  there  to  strive — 
"  'Twas  only  by  favour  of  mine,"  quoth  he,  "  ye  rode  so 

long  alive; 
"  There  was  not  a  rock  for  twenty  mile,  there  was  not 

a  clump  of  tree, 
"But  covered   a   man   of   my   own    men   with  his   rifle 

cocked  on  his  knee. 
"If  I  had  raised  my  bridle-hand,  as  I  have-  held  it 

low, 
"  The  little  jackals  that  flee  so  fast  were  feasting  all 

in  a  row; 


BUD  YARD  KIPLING  643 

"  If  I  had  bowed  my  head  on  my  breast,  as  I  have  held 

it  high, 
"  The  kite  that  whistles  above  us  now  were  gorged  till 

she  could  not  fly." 
Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son : — "  Do  good  to 

bird  and  beast, 
"  But  count  who  come  for  the  broken  meats  before  thou 

makest  a  feast. 
"  If  there  should  follow  a  thousand  swords  to  carry  my 

bones  away, 
"  Belike  the  price  of  a  jackal's  meal  were  more  than  a 

thief  could  pay. 
"  They  will  feed  their  horse  on  the  standing  crop,  their 

men  on  the  garnered  grain, 
"  The  thatch  of  the  byres  will  serve  their  fires  when  all 

the  cattle  are  slain. 
"  But    if    thou    thinkest    the    price    be    fair,    and    thy 

brethren  wait  to  sup, 
"  The  hound  is  kin  to  the  jackal-spawn, — howl,  dog,  and 

call  them  up ! 
"  And  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  high,  in  steer  and 

gear  and  stack, 
"  Give  me  my  father's  mare  again,  and  I'll  fight  my 

own  way  back !  " 
Kamal  has  gripped  him  by  the  hand  and  set  him 

upon  his  feet. 
"No  talk  shall  be  of  dogs,"  said  he,  "when  wolf  and 

grey  wolf  meet. 
"  May  I  eat  dirt  if  thou  hast  hurt  of  me  in  deed  or 

breath. 
"  What  dam  of  lances  brought  thee  forth  to  jest  at  the 

dawn  with  death  ?  " 
Lightly  answered  the   Colonel's  son :   "  I  hold  by  the 

blood  of  my  clan; 
"  Take  up  the  mare  for  my  father's  gift — she  will  carry 

no  better  man  !  " 


644  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

The    red-mare    ran  to  the  Colonel's  son,  and  nuzzled 

against  his  breast, 
"  We  be  two  strong  men,"  said  Kamal  then,  "  but  she 

loveth  the  younger  best. 

"  So  she  shall  go  with  a  lifter's  dower,  my  turquoise- 
studded  rein, 

"  My  broidered  saddle  and  saddle-cloth,  and  silver  stir- 
rups twain." 
The  Colonel's  son  a  pistol  drew  and  held  it  muzzle 

end, 
"  Ye  have  taken  the  one  from  a  foe,"  said  he ;  "  will  ye 

take  the  mate  from  a  friend  ?  " 
"  A  gift  for  a  gift,"  said  Kamal  straight ;  "  a  limb  for 

the  risk  of  a  limb, 
"  Thy  father  hast  sent  his  son  to  me,  I'll  send  my  son 

to  him!" 
With  that  he  whistled  his  only  son,  that  dropped  from 

a  mountain  crest — 
He  trod  the  ling  like  a  buck  in  spring  and  he  looked 

like  a  lance  in  rest. 
"  Now  here  is  thy  master,"  Kamal  said,  "  who  leads  a 

troop  of  the  Guides, 
"  And   thou   must   ride   at   his   left   side   as   shield   to 

shoulder  rides. 
"  Till  Death  or  I  cut  loose  the  tie,  at  camp  and  board 

and  bed, 
"  Thy  life  is  his — thy  fate  it  is  to  guard  him  with  thy 

head. 
"  And  thou  must  eat  the  White  Queen's  meat,  and  all 

her  foes  are  thine, 
'*  And  thou  must  harry  thy  father's  hold  for  the  peace 

of  the  Border-line. 
'"  And  thou  must  make  a  trooper  tough  and  hack  thy 

way  to  power — 
''  Belike  they  will  raise  thee  to  Ressaldar  when  I  am 

hanged  in  Peshawur." 


BUDYABD  KIPLING  645 

They  have  looked  each  other  between  the  eyes,  and 

there  they  found  no  fault, 
They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in-Blood  on 

leavened  bread  and  salt; 
They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in-Blood  on 

fire  and  fresh-cut  sod, 
On  the  hilt  and  the  haft  of  the  Khyber  knife,  and  the 

wondrous  names  of  God. 
The  Colonel's  son  he  rides  the  mare  and  Kamal's  boy 

the  dun, 
And  two  have  come  back  to  Fort  Monroe  where  there 

went  forth  but  one. 
And  when  they  drew  to  the  Quarter-Guard,  full  twenty 

swords  flew  clear — 
There  was  not  a  man  but  carried  his  feud  with  the 

blood  of  the  mountaineer. 
"  Ha'  done !     Ha'  done !  "  said  the  Colonel's  son.    "  Put 

up  the  steel  at  your  sides! 
"  Last  night  ye  had  struck  at  a  Border  thief — to-night 

'tis  a  man  of  the  Guides !  " 

Oh,  east  is  east,  and  west  is  west,  and  never  the  two 
shall  meet 

Till  earth  and  sky  stand  presently  at  God's  great  Judg- 
ment Seat. 

But  there  is  neither  east  nor  west,  border  or  breed  or 
birth, 

When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  face,  though  they 
come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

MANDALAY 

By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  eastward  to  the 

sea, 
There's  a  Burma  girl  a-settin',  an'  I  know  she  thinks 

o'  me; 


646  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

For  the  wind  is  in  the  palm-trees,  an'  the  temple-bells 

they  say: 
"  Come  you  back,  you  British  soldier ;  come  you  back 

to  Mandalay !  " 
Come  you  back  to  Mandalay 
Where  the  old  Flotilla  lay : 
Can't    you     'ear    their    paddles    chunkin'     from 

Rangoon  to  Mandalay? 
Oh,  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  flyin'-fishes  play. 

An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  outer  China 
'crost  the  Bay! 

'Er  petticut  was  yaller  an'  'er  little  cap  was  green, 
An'  'er  name  was  Supi-yaw-lat — jes'  the  same  as  Thee- 

baw's  Queen, 
An'  I  seed  her  fust   a-smokin'   of   a  whackin'   white 

cheroot, 

An'  a-wastin'  Christian  kisses  on  an  'eathen  idol's  foot : 
Bloomin'  idol  made  o'  mud — 
Wot  they  called  the  Great  Gawd  Budd— 
Plucky  lot  she  cared  for  idols  when  I  kissed  'er 

where  she  stud! 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 

When  the  mist  was  on  the  rice-fields  an'  the  sun  was 

droppin'  slow, 

She'd  git  'er  little  banjo  an'  she'd  sing  "  Kulla-lo-lo! " 
With  'er  arm  upon  my  shoulder  an'  her  cheek  agin  my 

cheek 

We  uster  watch  the  steamers  an'  the  hat  his  pilin'  teak. 
Elephints  a-piliir  teak 
In  the  sludgy,  squdgy  creek, 
Where   the  silence   'ung   that   'eavy  you   was   'arf 

afraid  to  speak ! 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay— 


RUDYABD  KIPLING  647 

But  that's  all  shove  be'ind  me — long  ago  an'  fur  away, 
An'  there  ain't  no  'buses  runnin'  from  the  Benk  to 

Mandalay; 
An'    I'm   learnin'    'ere   in   London   what   the   ten-year 

sodger  tells : 
"  If  you've  'eard  the  East  a-callin',  why,  you  won't  'eed 

nothin'  else." 

No !  you  won't  'eed  nothin'  else 
But  them  spicy  garlic  smells 
An'  the  sunshine 'an'  the  palm-trees  an'  the  tinkly 

temple  bells ! 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 

I  am  sick  o'   wastin'  leather  on  these  gutty  pavin'- 

stones, 
An'  the  blasted  Henglish  drizzle  wakes  the  fever  in 

my  bones; 
Tho'  I  walks  with  fifty  'ousemaids  outer  Chelsea  to  the 

Strand, 

An'  they  talks  a  lot  o'  lovin',  but  wot  do  they  under- 
stand ? 

Beefy  face  an'  grubby  'and — 
Law!  wot  do  they  understand? 
I've  a  neater,  sweeter  maiden  in  a  cleaner,  greener 

land! 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 

Ship  me  somewheres  east  of  Suez  where  the  best  is  like 

the  worst, 
Where  there  aren't  no  Ten  Commandments,  an'  a  man 

can  raise  a  thirst : 
For  the  temple-bells   are  callin',  an'  it's  there  that  I 

would  be — 

By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  lazy  at  the  sea — • 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  old  Flotilla  lay, 


648  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

With  our  sick  beneath  the  awnings  when  we  went 

to  Mandalay! 

Oh,  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  flyin'-fishes  play, 
An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  outer  China 

'crost  the  Bay! 

RECESSIONAL 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old — 
Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle  line — 
Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine — 
Lord  God  of  hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies — 
The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart — 
Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 
Lord  God  of  hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

Far-called  our  navies  melt  away — 
On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire — 
Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre! 
Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 
Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe — 
Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use, 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law — 
Lord  God  of  hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 


WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS  649 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard — 
All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 
And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard. 
For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 
Thy  Mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord ! 

AMEN. 


militant  Butler  l^eats 

1865- 

DOWN  BY  THE  SALLEY  GARDENS  * 

Down  by  the  salley  gardens  my  love  and  I  did  meet; 
She  passed  the  salley  gardens  with  little  snow-white 

feet. 
She  bid  me  take  love  easy,  as  the  leaves  grow  on  the 

tree; 
But  I,  being  young  and  foolish,  with  her  would  not 

agree. 


In  a  field  by  the  river  my  love  and  I  did  stand, 

And  on  my  leaning  shoulder  she  laid  her  snow-white 

hand. 
She  bid  me  take  life  easy,  as  the  grass  grows  on  the 

weirs ; 
But  I  was  young  and  foolish,  and  now  am  full  of  tears. 

*  Printed  by  permission  from  ir.  B.  Yeats'  Poetical  Works.    Copyright, 
1906,  by  The  Macmillau  Company. 


650  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

THE  ROSE  OF  THE  WORLD* 

Who  dreamed  that  beauty  passes  like  a  dream? 
For  these  red  lips,  with  all  their  mournful  pride, 
Mournful  that  no  new  wonder  may  betide, 
Troy  passed  away  in  one  high  funeral  gleam, 
And  Usna's  children  died. 

We  and  the  labouring  world  are  passing  by: 
Amid  men's  souls,  that  waver  and  give  place, 
Like  the  pale  waters  in  their  wintry  race, 
Tinder  the  passing  stars,  foam  of  the  sky, 
Lives  on  this  lonely  face. 

Bow  down,  archangels,  in  your  dim  abode: 
Before  you  were,  or  any  hearts  to  beat, 
Weary  and  kind  one  lingered  by  His  seat ; 
He  made  the  world  to  be  a  grassy  road 
Before  her  wandering  feet. 


Stepben  flMnllips 

1868- 

TWILIGHT  f 
I. 

Red  skies  above  a  level  land 

And  thought  of  thee; 
Sinking  sun  on  reedy  strand, 

And  alder  tree. 

*  Printed  by  permission  from  W.  B.  Yeats'  Poetical  Workt.  Copyright, 
1906,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 

+  Printed  by  permission  from  The  Sin  of  David.  Copyright,  1904,  by 
The  Macmillan  Company. 


ALFRED  NOYES  651 


n. 


Only  the  heron  sailing  home, 

With  heavy  flight:        % 
Ocean  afar  in  silent  foam, 

And  coming  night. 

nr. 

Dwindling  day  and  drowsing  birds, 

O  my  child! 
Dimness  and  returning  herds, 

Memory  wild. 


Hlfreo 

1880- 
THE  CALL  OF  THE  SPRING  * 

Come,  choose  your  road  and  away,  my  lad, 
Come,  choose  your  road  and  away! 

We'll  out  of  the  town  by  the  road's  bright  crown 
As  it  dips  to  the  dazzling  day. 

It's  a  long  white  road  for  the  weary; 

But  it  rolls  through  the  heart  of  the  May. 

Though  many  a  road  would  merrily  ring 
To  the  tramp  of  your  marching  feet, 

All  roads  are  one  from  the  day  that's  done, 
And  the  miles  are  swift  and  sweet, 

And  the  graves  of  your  friends  are  the  mile-stones 
To  the  land  where  all  roads  meet. 

*  Printed  by  permission  from  The  Golden  Hynde  and  Other  Poems. 
Copyright,  1908,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


652  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

But  the  call  that  you  hear  this  day,  my  lad, 
Is  the  Spring's  old  bugle  of  mirth 

When  the  year's  green  fire  in  a  soul's  desire 
Is  brought  like  a  rose  to  the  birth; 

And  knights  ride  out  to  adventure 
As  the  flowers  break  out  of  the  earth. 


Over  the  sweet-smelling  moxmtain-passes 

The  clouds  lie  brightly  curled; 
The  wild-flowers  cling  to  the  crags  and  swing 

With  cataract-dews  impearled; 
And  the  way,  the  way  that  you  choose  this  day 

Is  the  way  to  the  end  of  the  world. 

It  rolls  from  the  golden  long  ago 

To  the  land  that  we  ne'er  shall  find; 
And  it's  uphill  here,  but  it's  downhill  there, 

For  the  road  is  wise  and  kind, 
And  all  rough  places  and  cheerless  faces 

Will  soon  be  left  behind. 

Come,  choose  your  road  and  away,  away, 

V.'e'll  follow  the  gypsy  sun; 
For  it's  soon,  too  soon  to  the  end  of  the  day, 

And  the  day  is  well  begun; 
And  the  road  rolls  on  through  the  heart  of  the  May, 

And  there's  never  a  May  but  one. 

There's  a  fir-wood  here,  and  a  dog-rose  there, 

And  a  note  of  the  mating  dove; 
And  a  glimpse,  maybe,  of  the  warm  blue  sea, 

And  the  warm  white  clouds  above; 
And  warm  to  your  breast  in  a  tenderer  nest 

Your  sweetheart's  little  glove. 


ALFRED  NO YES  653 

There's  not  much  better  to  win,  my  lad, 

There's  not  much  better  to  win! 

You  have  lived,  you  have  loved,  you  have  fought,  you 
have  proved 

The  worth  of  folly  and  sin; 
So  now  come  out  of  the  City's  rout, 

Come  out  of  the  dust  and  the  din. 

Come  out, — a  bundle  and  stick  is  all 

You'll  need  to  carry  along, 
If  your  heart  can  carry  a  kindly  word, 

And  your  lips  can  carry  a  song; 
You  may  leave  the  lave  to  the  keep  o'  the  grave, 

If  your  lips  can  carry  a  song! 

Come,  choose  your  road  and  away,  my  lad, 

Come,  choose  your  road  and  away! 
We'll  out  of  the  town  by  the  road's  bright  crown, 

As  it  dips  to  the  sapphire  day! 
All  roads  may  meet  at  the  world's  end, 

But,  hey  for  the  heart  of  the  May! 
Come,  choose  your  road  and  away,  dear  lad, 

Come  choose  your  road  and  away. 


UNITY  * 


Heart  of  my  heart,  the  world  is  young; 

Love  lies  hidden  in  every  rose! 
Every  song  that  the  skylark  sung 

Once,  we  thought,  must  come  to  a  close : 

*  Printed  by  permicsion  from    The  Golden,  Hynde  and   Other  Poems. 
Copyright,  1908,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


654  VICTORIAN  VERSE 

Now  we  know  the  spirit  of  song, 

Song  that  is  merged  in  the  chant  of  the  whole, 
Hand  in  hand  as  we  wander  along, 

What  should  we  doubt  of  the  years  that  roll? 


ii. 


Heart  of  my  heart,  we  cannot  die ! 

Love  triumphant  in  flower  and  tree, 
Every  life  that  laughs  at  the  sky 

Tells  us  nothing  can  cease  to  be: 
One,  we  are  one  with  a  song  to-day, 

One  with  the  clover  that  scents  the  wold. 
One  with  the  Unknown,  far  away, 

One  with  the  stars,  when  earth  grows  old. 


in. 

Heart  of  my  heart,  we  are  one  with  the  wind, 

One  with  the  clouds  that  are  whirled  o'er  the  lea, 
One  in  many,  O  broken  and  blind, 

One  as  the  waves  are  at  one  with  the  sea ! 
Ay!  when  life  seems  scattered  apart, 

Darkens,  ends  as  a  tale  that  is  told, 
One,  we  are  one,  O  heart  of  my  heart, 

One,  still  one,  while  the  world  grows  old. 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


Illlllll 

A     000033913     5 


- 


